. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. But always this new phase in life which civilization called convention threw up barrier after barrier. 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. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. "But, though the storm has spared him, I will not.
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