“There are some people,” he said at last, “who seem fated to carry on their shoulders the burdens of other people. He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. Light the lantern. She’s very special. 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. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. She wished he could smoke and dull his nerves a little. "Patience Kite has lured him to Enfield on a false scent after Blueskin.
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