. He told her something about music, the great world outside. ” “You have her face and figure,” he muttered. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. I knew it. 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. See paragraph 1. Plays Beethoven, Rubenstein and all those chaps.
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