‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. She fluttered it with a trembling hand, averting her eyes from his, and he could hear her uneven breath behind it. He filled the rôle of comrade which Spurlock dared not enact, at least not utterly as he would have liked. Oh! and love—love! We’ve had so splendid a time, and fought our fight and won. She wasn’t sure of herself when she said it. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. In the matter of his conscience he was primitive; and for an educated man to become primitive is to become something of a child. ” The girl nodded.
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