Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. This person, whose age might be about forty, was attired in a brown double-breasted frieze coat, with very wide skirts, and a very narrow collar; a light drugget waistcoat, with pockets reaching to the knees; black plush breeches; grey worsted hose; and shoes with round toes, wooden heels, and high quarters, fastened by small silver buckles. Jack had brought away the bunch of keys which he had taken from Quilt Arnold, but, none of them would open it. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, after a long interval, “if they are absurd. There never is much left for me.
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