“What of her? Have you quarrelled with her?” The girl shook her head. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. This moment couldn’t be better until the next moment comes. ‘Parbleu, the bullet is still inside you,’ Melusine guessed, remembering how the Mother Abbess had diagnosed Leonardo’s suffering when he had first come to the convent. “Call me Annabel. "I didn't expect this from you," rejoined Thames, resolutely. 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.
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