It is abominable—” “What is the use of keeping up this note of indignation, Ann Veronica? Here I am! I am your lover, burning for you. “I’m thirsty. 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. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. She entered the kitchen. His tongue was more ready, his wit more keen than usual.
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