It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans. “I’ve been through all that,” she went on, after a pause. ‘André? Que dit-il?’ ‘My wife does not understand,’ said the fellow, frowning deeply. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters.
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