Miss Ellicot, who sang ballads, and liked Brendon to turn over the pages for her, tossed her head. She undid his zipper and pulled his shorts down his hips. 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. In any place her beauty would have been an uncommon thing. “Nor am I now,” he answered. ‘Exactly like my father.
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