“I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. “There is someone in my rooms,” Anna said. Once they were below, McClintock turned upon the doctor. 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. So kind, so good to me always. “Oh, you can act!” she cried. Parbleu, but must she do this all through the house? Evidently she must, for not only could she not properly see the paintings and portraits that hung on the walls, but she was in imminent danger of bumping into the sheet-shrouded furniture.
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