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. McClintock could not browbeat him, storm as he might. She had been to San Francisco, and what I learned about the world was from her. "Are you not content with the crimes you have committed, —but you must carry your villany to this point. The Denunciation. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am.
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