Sheppard is Constance Trenchard," replied Jonathan, maliciously. He said the place had gone to wrack. 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. A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived. She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window.
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