But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. 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. A woman touched him lightly on the arm, and smiled into his face. I wouldn't touch the stuff for all the pearls in India. Have we not received Lady Bicknacre just this morning? Not to mention the Comtesse de St Erme. Go away now, there’s a good lad. If you can’t see as how there ain’t nothing in this barrack of a place to help me do the job, I can. Fool that I was to marry for beauty! I ought to have remembered that a fair woman and a slashed gown always find some nail in the way. As for this infatuation—it’s like some obsession, some magic thing laid upon you.
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