"You're on," said O'Higgins. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. I'm sure he'll do his best to content you. ’ ‘For shame, Hilary,’ admonished his fiancée, casting a pitying glance at the refugees. 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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