Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. Her natural instincts reasserted themselves. She had recourse to the torn off strip of petticoat again, and blowing her nose with an air of determination, sniffed back the tears. “Remember that the man will probably die. Somehow or other his reputation as a hardened and unassailable bachelor had won for him during the last few years a comparative immunity from attentions on the part of those women with whom he had been brought into contact. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. But she no longer obsessed over heresy, no longer did she feel cursed by God. “Is that plain?” she asked.
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