Now we meet again, and you will scarcely look at me. Her lips were dry and cracked. ‘You are not sympathique in the very least. 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. I had no right to marry you. To find the true father at the expense of the beautiful fairy tale Ruth had woven around the woman in the locket was an intolerable thought.
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