‘I can take care of myself, bête. 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. These and her general preparations had perhaps a certain disproportion. “Very good,” he said. ‘I doubt it. She wondered wildly why she had stood up. She fell into another depression, refusing to touch Sebastian or call him husband when he demanded it. A small brickbat was thrown, which struck Jonathan in the face.
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