“It’s jolly,” he said, “to feel you have come to me. Then blackness. 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. ” “It’s the perpetual trouble,” he said, “of parent and child. Her prevailing effect was one of quiet and complete assurance, as though she knew all about everything, and was only restrained by her instinctive delicacy from telling what she knew. It’s—it’s a social difference. ‘You are too shrewd for me, ma’am.
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