‘Does Charvill know that this Melusine of yours is here?’ The question distracted Gerald. If I do not look after her, she has no one. Her bonnet dropped off and was trampled into the gutter. 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. They stood back together and stared at it. “Well, you have thought it over?” he said, sitting down beside her. I can’t.
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