He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. For a time he would be the grim Protestant Flagellant, pursuing the idea of self-castigation. “Wow, congratulations, Martin. “Lucy, have you noticed that I don’t even own a dog?” He spoke into her hair. Before he re-entered the prison, he hesitated from a doubt whether he was not fearfully increasing his risk of capture; but, convinced that he had no other alternative, he went on.
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