There she would wander about in the kindly darkness. Gossip was the driving force in Sheila’s existence. You know nothing of life, nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities. "If I were so, I should not be here," returned Trenchard. 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. No police officers or lurking storms were anywhere in sight. I would like to have to tell it so.
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