Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. ’ ‘Distract me? She nigh on gave me an apoplexy. 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. She had nothing to say for herself. It was the same Bios whose nature and drift and ways and methods and aspects engaged them all. “If you were to ask me,” he would say, “I should say Blinders is straight.
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