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. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. “Michelle, it’s me, Lucy. A momentary petrifaction, and terror had lent wings to her feet.
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