“I don’t know, John. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. Impressionable, lonely, a deal beyond his analytical reach, the girl might let her sympathies go beyond those of the nurse. 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. We think the whole thing is straight and noble at bottom, and it isn’t. Ann Veronica thought the whole affair rather jolly. She put back her hood in a determined way.
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