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“Oh, much better. Get it off your soul. ” Her urge to drink deeply of his blood was growing insane, ignited by what he had already donated. She stumbled through a thorny copse, her slippers sliding on patches of sand that gave way to rock. She was very satisfied about this. Wood, then, beheld two persons, one of whom he recognised as Rowland, spring on board the chase. But be patient, I am your fast friend. 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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