” “Let us say that Café Maston, in the Boulevard des Italiennes, at half-past seven then,” he decided. The rich, heavy food sat in her stomach like so many soft pebbles. 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. Mrs. In his condition the boy apparently had been as safe as in the lock-up.
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