“Never mind how I can. I do.” The strong, almost stern tone lifted up Joan’s heart. The flax was smoking. “You’re under a sort of spell—that’s all it is.”
“All?”
“All. Your words betray you. Your soul, you say, isn’t your own. That’s pure fantasy—it must be. You’re under no physical restraint, and you’re mentally free. You can think out your way of escape—discuss it with me. You couldn’t do that if your soul wasn’t your own. You’re not even hypnotized. But because for years you’ve been hammered you think that you can’t hit back. The bare idea staggers you.” He leaned forward and set a hand on her arm. “But you haven’t got to hit back, Joan. Do get that into your head. Slipping out of the ring while he’s sleeping isn’t hitting him back.”
Joan began to tremble.
“But after, Perry, after . . . Supposing——”
The grip on her arm tightened.
“There’d be no ‘after,’ dear. The spell ’d be broken. As you stood on the platform and watched the train’s lights fading, your confidence ’d come back pelting. You’d want to shout and sing. You’d wonder why on earth you’d stuck it so long. You’d find yourself laughing to think what a fool you’d been. You could afford to laugh, because you’d be free—free.”
Joan put a hand to her head.
“It’s the plunge,” she whimpered. “It’s taking the plunge, Perry. I’m afraid. If I’d someone to hold my hand . . . You know what I said just now. The sea doesn’t run so high when you’re not alone in the boat.”
Peregrine pushed back his hood and wiped his face. This was streaming with sweat.