"Away with him!" exclaimed Sir Rowland, impatiently. He sent me flowers. 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. A blow from the iron bar instantly stretched the ruffian on the floor. There was a gentle rustling of skirts.
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