On their return, the jailers raised up Jonathan, who was weltering in his blood, and who appeared to be dying. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. 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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