” “Is that so wrong, to want to live forever?” “It is wrong to if the price is murder. “Let us put the lamp out,” she said; “the flames are ever so much better for talking,” and Ann Veronica agreed. He then unfolded his choice and held it before her face. No one spoke, and she was impelled to flounder on. She let out a wail. His literary instincts began to stir. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. 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.
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