“Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said. Sir John, who was standing outside, looked past him at the girl still sitting in the shadow. I don’t think I’ve got illusions, nor you. 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.
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