Blood dripped down one side of her forehead. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour. " "But you will,—won't you?" she rejoined, looking him coaxingly in the face. No, none at all. ” “I plead guilty, Miss Pellissier,” he answered at once. “You’re self-taught, aren’t you, Lucy?” She looked around the table, all eyes upon her. ’ He sat looking her over in silence for a moment or two, his thoughts revolving around the name and the way it fitted so exquisitely on quite another set of features. 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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