“I’ll go,” he said, “but I warn you that I shall find you out. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. “I was sick of the make-believe. 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. My heart fails me. She loved to dress the Fritz and Anna in outfits that she stitched from discarded velvet dresses. On the Day he had trumpet-like outbreaks of cordiality, varied by a watchful preoccupation.
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