This is a plot entirely abominable, and I scorn to be part of it. The key is in my trousers. "He's the famous Dutch conjuror who foretold King William's accident and death, last February but one, a month before either event happened, and gave out that another prince over the water would soon enjoy his own again; for which he was committed to Newgate, and whipped at the cart's tail. It arises, I think, from an over developed sense of humour. ‘Still—here? Wasting your—time. She drove me. 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. Melusine jumped up, turning swiftly.
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