CHAPTER XXI McClintock's island was twelve miles long and eight miles wide, with the shape of an oyster. " "My turn comes before yours, Sir," interposed his better half. He remained talking with her however. Her family had hosted a feast in his honor for which they had taken weeks to prepare: with braised capons and lobster sausages and all sorts of delicious spiced stews her mother had made from secret recipes. 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. But I don't understand her; she's over my head.
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