Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee. Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. ” “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” He accused. 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 hand flew across the paper. But that bridge was more remarkable than any the metropolis now possesses.
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