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 read those stories. There were shadows under his eyes. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. ’ ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ Gerald uttered in a rueful tone. ‘Well, only look what’s come of it. But for now, I’d like to turn in, if you don’t mind. ’ ‘A very low stratagem, Hilary,’ Gerald said, turning on his captain with mock severity. Books! Aren't they wonderful?" The blind alley of life stretching out before her, with its secret doorways and hidden menaces; and she was unconcerned. .
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