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She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. He carried her into his bedroom as she unfastened the tiny white buttons of his shirt. . ” Nigel Ennison looked up with a little start. “And let us have a talk about this—some other time. “Stop! Don’t put your face there. 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. I just never had anything else fun to do. ‘How is this? Proo-den-ss.
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