Cahill gave me a hall pass. She told us that it was a disguise. She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Further on, there were impressions of bloody footsteps along the floor. She helped Jack to sit down, and dragged the jacket off him, lifting his shirt to expose the gash that had sliced across his side. 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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