She bathed frequently with ash and lye soap stolen from traders. "For me—his master, Mr. 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. She was standing before a window, against the background of the rain-burdened April sky. ‘You knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window. “My dear Anna,” he answered. . I married—I married a woman whom I still think one of the most beautiful persons in the world.
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