There were moments when Ann Veronica rather more than suspected the chief speakers to be, as school-boys say, showing off at her. I'm speaking of virtuous women—of WIVES, Madam. “Where am I?” he muttered. Every word you utter puzzles me. 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. “It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy.
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