‘Aye, that she was. Ramage,” she said, “I can’t—Not now. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. " "I never heard of anybody who could," declared McClintock. And next morning she attired herself with especial care and neatness, found his address in the Directory at a post-office, and went to him. Listening on the dimlit landing, he saw Roding’s face muscles tighten. As they passed beneath the thick trees that shade the road to Dollis Hill, the gloom was almost impenetrable. 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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