She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. Play foul, and win. 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. "At the Black Lion in our street," replied Jack, without hesitation. Hopefully.
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