If I let you believe I did not love you, and they found me, your shame would be negligible. ‘It is not your affair. Don't build your hopes too high; but I will do what I can. He deserves none. “Never mind, old chap,” he declared. Love, obliterated, annihilated; out of his heart and out of his Bible. I should say that having a doubt was enough to condemn 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. Now what? There was an interest, or why ask him who they were. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved.
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