In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made. Without preamble, in a voice of extreme exasperation, he demanded, ‘Now what the devil’s to do? What in God’s name do you mean by sending Gerald such a ridiculous letter? Never read anything half as crazy. 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. His sword-arm fell useless at his side and she knew herself safe. ‘I haven’t been so much entertained since I left the Army. . " "No more of this," said Winifred, angrily.
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