Part 6 When Ann Veronica reached her little bed-sitting-room again, every nerve in her body was quivering with shame and self-disgust. "Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. “You see, her sister is married to Ferringhall, isn’t she? and she herself must be drawing no end of a good screw here. 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. Here we go, thought Gerald.
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