I picked up her handkerchief on the floor. The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate. He leaned towards her, laid his hand tenderly upon hers. The effects of the heroin wore off slowly. She held out her arms to him and smiled. "I say we, because Miss Rachel and I have struck up a match. 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 wonder what men would say if we threw the mask aside—if we really told them what WE thought of them, really showed them what WE were. “It’s odd—I have no doubt in my mind that what we are doing is wrong,” he said. Here would be the true test of his strength. She’ll tell everyone soon, if only to gain herself some attention!” He cried under his breath. .
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