That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. And the fact that it was dressed in riding gear had fooled her into thinking it was her own image. 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. Your husband could have told you that. “I wonder,” he said, and went off at a tangent. They returned to the castle, neither of them speaking.
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