She felt him sometimes at night as he called to her in her dreams. 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. You are—horrible. “How did you hear that?” Lucy’s brows knitted. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. ‘She’s wearing a lightskirt’s clothing?’ ‘Nothing obviously so, I assure you. Shall we say at half-past seven?” She rose from her chair.
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