A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. The danger or difficulty of an exploit never appalled him. And the food! She and Marina had done most of the cooking at home. I shall have no faith in future in bolts and bars. 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. “Dear me,” she said, “I fancy you exaggerate my fame. “Where?” “To that ball.
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