" Davies reluctantly complied. A fever of shame ran through her being. He was a wonderful little creature with a perfect tiny face, mottled pink cheeks, and eyes brighter than May. “We settled long ago—we’re hard stuff. 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. But at this, he halted, turning his frowning gaze back on her. Never really thought about Him—people don’t. Englishmen also certainly. "No.
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