CHAPTER XIX. Sheila decided to do a little laundry one day, clothes that were in Lucy’s hamper, a dirty clothes bin that Lucy had insisted that she have for herself separate from the family one. Hitherto she had seen it chiefly in pictures and other works of art, incidentally, and as a thing taken out of life. If only this man had been her father! The world would have meant nothing; the island would have been wide enough. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation. There was something fatalistic about the letter H.
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