Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery. But I see now. “Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly. 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. ” “How? Show me.
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