I fancy that Sir John does not approve of me. I don’t want to tear at you with hot, rough hands. Fly! they shall knock me on the head—curse 'em!—before they shall touch you. 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. ‘Danged if I ever hear the like! A Frenchie is what you are, and there ain’t no granddaughter Charvill no more. Ran in the family. . ” “Much better,” she agreed.
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