She looked away. "Yes," answered the girl. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat. She clasped her hands over her mouth in a silent scream. This fruit was McClintock's particular pride. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company. You know what's what.
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