"We shall all be murdered. ‘Gérard, do not go,’ she cried, breathless. But, taking the chisel from Blueskin, Jack quickly forced back the bolt. 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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