“I am not a lady. I am just one of God’s fisher folk. I want to see my own kith and kin. I am going to do so.”
“You are not—until your husband gives you permission.”
“Permission! do you say? I will go on my own permission, Sophy Braelands’s permission.”
“It is a shame to take the horses out in such weather—and poor old Thomas.”
“Shame or not, I shall take them out.”
“Indeed, no! I cannot permit you to make a fool and a laughing-stock of yourself.” She rang the bell sharply and sent for the coachman When he appeared, she said:
“Thomas, I think the horses had better not go out this morning. It is bitterly cold, and there is a storm coming from the northeast. Do you not think so?”
“It is a bad day, Madame, and like to be worse.”
“Then we will not go out.”
As Madame uttered the words, Sophy walked rapidly forward. All the passion of her Viking ancestors was in her face, which had undergone a sort of transfiguration. Her eyes flashed, her soft curly yellow hair seemed instinct with a strange life and brilliancy, and she said with an authority that struck Madame with amazement and fear: