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. Wood's ear, whispered, "secret agents from France—you understand—friends to the cause—hem!" "I see,—persons of rank!" Mr. “Silly!” he remarked after a pause. He had little money about him, and unless friends come to his aid he must be treated as a pauper. He recoiled from the sting. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. Marvel, who proceeded to the cart, and took his seat upon the coffin. The petals have fallen—the red petals we loved so.
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