E. ’ ‘Nonsense. “I suppose you know I like you tremendously?” he pursued. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. So, by way of gaining time, he resolved to question him further. No more.
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