"I'll fetch it. I met her when we were both very young, as young as you are. 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. The executioner shook his head. There was enough contra-light to render her ethereal. Any man might have endeavoured to protect himself in this fashion, a man with no one to care, with an unnameable terror at the thought (as if it mattered!) of being buried in alien earth, far from the familiar places he loved. Now, abruptly, they were real again, though very distant, and she had come to say farewell to them across one sundering year. You certainly had to hand it to these Chinks.
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