"While I live you are safe," rejoined Trenchard; "after my death I can answer for nothing. 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. Then, as he was trying to bite through the rope, I told him, ‘That’s for 107 Traci, motherfucker.
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