The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead. 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. ” “I am going to ask more than a favour,” she said slowly. “If I do,” he said. “Annabel! Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, child?” she exclaimed.
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