She had gone into Morgan's one afternoon for a bag of salt. Here you are, young, sound, with a heart that will recover in no time, provided you keep liquor out of it. 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. Wood, in a taunting tone. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. In this spy theory, however, he had no faith whatsoever.
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