She could hear the raucous laughter and bad music below. . She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. 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. Her disapproval was obvious enough. “It has been very kind of you to see me, but I don’t want to sit and talk and use your time any longer. ” “A—marriage certificate!” Annabel gasped. ” “Sure thing, kid. The cause of this uproar was soon manifest. Your aunt liked the pheasant.
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