Sheila bellowed, a great wail of a sound from deep in her belly, flinging her tremendous weight towards him. His face turned a dark crimson. You’re dogmatic. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. There was a brief pause, a crowded pause, between them. 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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