" At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand. I must tell somebody—and you would understand. The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years. And she defies me. Taking the wind was her business in life. ‘It weren’t my wish, miss, I can tell you that. Men fled from their tottering habitations, and returned to them scared by greater dangers.
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