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Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. "Fool!" he cried, "do you think I wouldn't have secured you before this if I hadn't some motive for my forbearance?" "And that motive is fear," replied Jack contemptuously. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. "I was afraid it would be so. “They seem smaller, you know, even physically smaller,” she said. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not.
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