" "Sir Rowland Trenchard!" echoed Jack, in amazement. Then he had gone away. . She could see over a waist high stone wall into the miniature courtyard, complete with benches only a small child could sit upon, one which had been broken in half, its two pieces left unjoined on the sandy ground. You can if you will. Was he your natural father? Did you know him?” “No, I didn’t. Well, my dear, it is time you stopped wallowing in your sorrows like a common wretch. She stood 218 there, broken bottle still in hand. See paragraph 1. 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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