The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. In a very definite sense we are in the wrong —hopelessly in the wrong. CHAPTER XXIII. ‘Either you tell me why you want the wretched animal, or it stays here. “Mary!” He whispered loudly. 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. One research is very like another.
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