"No, no, let him alone," interposed Wood. It was a young girl who overheard me when I was on my third shopkeeper who answered my question. Others pulled hats over their noses, cowered in their seats, and feigned that all was right with the world. Then she sang. Everything in the world to live for!—fame that he could not reap, love that he must not take! What was all this pother about hell as a future state? By and by things began to stir on the table: little invisible things. 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. Like the Valades, I imagine. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade.
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