T’weren’t fitting, we knew that. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. ToC London, at the period of this history, boasted only a single bridge. Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. It was decrepit and too large. ’ He took the thing from Melusine’s listless grasp and went on, ‘Now then, what’s all this here argy-bargy with Pottiswick?’ Melusine opened her eyes and straightened up. 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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