Stanley poured wine. She was quite oblivious to the sensation she had created. "After all," he said, "this is the safest weapon. 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. The night was clear and moonlit, dazzling with even light blue shadows that shone into manicured lawns and pristine gardens. There was only one prisoner in the ward. Light the lantern. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him.
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