Sister Angelina shook her head as if to say that such ignorance was beyond her. "I must have dropped it when I took out my note-book. “Well, you have thought it over?” he said, sitting down beside her. “I’m so glad my Mom’s letting me go out tonight. 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. Folding his arms, he placed his back against the door, and burst into a loud laugh. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden.
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