You never can tell. “I think,” he said, “that you have found the real home of the lotus-eaters. She said you HAD some money. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. Hope reared. To the poor carpenter it seemed an endless distance. 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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