In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. " "I'm sorry. You are a detective?" "Yes. 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. ’ ‘Tchah! Better a doubtful welcome here than a confounded French convent. As for the patient, his decision was immediate.
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