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Sheila was often a terror to her husband Mark, who seemed afraid of her. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. ‘What’s to do?’ ‘Valade is here. 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. She felt she had to go on. Horrible memories of things seen beneath the microscope of the baser forms of life crawled across her mind and set her shuddering with imagined irritations. She could manage the major. At least I rather hoped I might spend my time chasing smugglers, which would have afforded some excitement.
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