It was a dull, foggy day, and the atmosphere was so thick and heavy, that, at eight o'clock, the curious who arrived near the prison could scarcely discern the tower of St. 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. He was tall, nearly six feet, and from his stature it was clear that he spent some spare time working on his physique. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. I wonder.
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