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Spurling was no longer allowed to visit him; he was again loaded with irons; fastened by an enormous horse-padlock to a staple in the floor; and only allowed to take repose in a chair. “No, John, you won’t understand. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. “It’s bound to be all right,” she said. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together. But this afternoon it discovered an unusual vein of irritability in her. “This is the slavery of the veiled life.
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