Together they made their painful way to the door, not even checking, in the effort this cost both, on what Gosse might be doing. I was worried. He's the only native I trust in these parts. This gloom was impossible. Over the sea of heads arose a black and dismal object. 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. I am sure that he can be got rid of.
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