“But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. Sheppard, distractedly. 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. She gloried in it: he needed her. I have something that weighs heavily upon my mind. ‘Neither do I,’ he responded, frowning, ‘but for Gerald’s sake, I’ll do anything I can. We're lost. you did what you had to do.
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