morning, noon
Aileen would never have followed the clue so vigorously had it not been for the look she had seen Cowperwood fix on the girl in the Park and in the restaurant -- an air of soul-hunger which could not be gainsaid . Let no one ridicule the terrors of unrequited love . Its tentacles are cancerous , its grip is of icy death . Sitting in her boudoir immediately after these events , driving , walking , shopping , calling on the few with whom she had managed to scrape an acquaintance , Aileen thought morning , noon , and night of this new woman . The pale , delicate face haunted her . What were those eyes , so remote in their gaze , surveying ? Love ?