Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. "I'll tell you," answered Jonathan, sternly. 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. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. I do not command the services of a person who will not tell me why he offers them.
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