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It dawned upon him that he had been abominably used by Ann Veronica. "You mistake,—you are mine. She even thought that perhaps she might come to love him, in spite of that faint indefinable flavor of absurdity that pervaded his courtly bearing. For a long time even the strong pipe tobacco (with which McClintock supplied him) possessed a coconut flavour. She could feel Martin’s eyes boring into her as she entered the room, her own personal Farhat. Of this I'm certain, however, she was much too good for him, and was never meant to be a journeyman carpenter's wife, still less what is she now. His last actions were futile.
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