She pushed at the closer of the two soldiers bearing the precious burden. “There is no doubt whatever about that. It was the only time she had ever hit him, punched him right in the stomach like one of his favorite Three Stooges episodes. 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. He drew both his pistols, and prepared for a desperate encounter.
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