Her voice was weak and flat. "My name is Darrell," said the fugitive hastily. "If things had gone smoothly," he thought, "I should have cursed the fellow's stupidity. She found it extremely difficult to infuse an air of quiet correctitude into her return through the window, and when she was safely inside she waved clinched fists and executed a noiseless dance of rage. 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. ‘Yes, for there were too many females for the vicomte to make me a dowry. Totally disregarding the pain, he picked up the nail, and reserved it for future use.
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