Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term "his right hand and his left. A cat came and rubbed herself against him as he entered the house, and seemed by her mewing to ask him for food. 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. “I have a letter for him from his brother, which I was just leaving. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely.
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