” “Your husband,” he answered bluntly. I’ve always had a sneaking desire for the writing-trade. He comforted himself, however, with the certainty which he felt of capturing his prey on the Sunday. ‘No more, Saling, no more,’ said Mrs Sindlesham in accents of exhaustion. Annabel was in hiding all the time. 167 “True love is forever, isn’t it?” It was something a child would say, a phrase she had seen scratched on bathroom walls and maple trees, but it made her sad. There was no one stirring in the flats. 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.
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