Sheppard raised her hand, and the malediction trembled upon her tongue. 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 kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. He grew even harder.
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