She vanished from the laboratory for a week, a week of oddly interesting days. "At length I am my own master," murmured the knight, as his foot touched the strand. Yeah, I’m thirty-seven. Wood," added she in a hollow voice, and with a ghastly look, "gin may bring ruin; but as long as poverty, vice, and ill-usage exist, it will be drunk. She did not want to go to the doctor's people; however kindly that might be, they would be only curious strangers. 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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