“I’m a bad boy,” Ian admitted, failing to mention there was no wife and likely would never be one given his inability to commit or emotionally connect with anything other than a book. He liked women, it was true, he simply botched up romance. You keep yourself hidden, his mother had told him. As do you, he’d shot back. He was still angry at not having known his father. And I’m alone, Margaret Wright responded. And don’t mind being so. The implication was, he was not.
