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. Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. , or that she had a care in the world. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. "To those who, like me, have never been able to get out of the dark and dreary paths of life, the grave is indeed a refuge, and the sooner they reach it the better. I have never spoken of these things to any human being.
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