“Won’t you give me your address?” She shook her head. "What do you mean by that, sirrah?" cried Wood, reddening with anger. He could not contain his satisfaction, but chuckled, and rubbed his hands with delight. She had found the location of his firm on the internet on a library computer, tracing him to this place in New York where he practiced criminal law. He remembered also, all at once, the very first words he had heard her speak: “I was not born to this. He was safe, out of the beaten track, at last really comparable to the needle in the haystack. 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. Full twenty highwaymen blithe and bold, Rattled their chains in that dungeon old; Of all that number there 'scaped not one Who carved his name on the Newgate Stone. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. He had an objective now.
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