“I tell my Mom everything. "Let me see," replied Wood; "exactly twelve years ago last November. ’ ‘What husband?’ ‘Precisely. 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. Night and day have been alike to me. I want to be myself. Say that I will call again or let him know my address in London.
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