Now I do. . The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. As concertmaster, it was Lucy’s duty to seat the orchestra as well as tune them. Hastening in the direction of the sound, he discovered Thames Darrell, stretched upon the ground. You need not be afraid. Her heart thudded. 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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