“You blithering idiot!” he exclaimed. Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong, I swear it. Stay! I'll go myself. And imprinting a kiss upon his mother's cold lips, he left the room. She fought him with tooth and nail. 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. "You frighten the cull out of his senses.
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