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. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. ’ You have no right to call yourself ‘Alcide. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her. He pressed his lips to her with a much greater force than she had anticipated.
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