He was standing up with the telegram crumpled in his hand. You represented to us the immaculate Briton, the one Englishman who typified the Saxonism, if I may coin a word, of our race. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. " "Wonderful! It's an infernal shame. Fortunately, the window was not far from the ground; so opening it gently, he dropped into a backyard, and from thence got into the street. 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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