He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. This path, bordered on each side by high privet hedges of the most beautiful green, soon brought them to a stile. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. Spurlock was by nature orderly, despite his literary activities. Stanley used his authority, and commanded Ann Veronica to come home, to which, of course, she said she wouldn’t; and then he warned her not to defy him, warned her very solemnly, and then commanded her again. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. “We will take it then,” he said, “that you have refused or ignored one request I have made you this morning. Then pain entered their depths.
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