“Have you told anyone?”
“Not yet.”
“But you must. If you really think that, you must tell the Canon so.”
“I know.” Her voice was rather faint, but she repeated, more strongly and with entire acceptance in her voice, “I know I must.”
It reminded him of the long past days when one of the St. Gwenllian children had been naughty, and the task of taking the culprit before the Canon had invariably, and as a matter of course, devolved upon Lucilla.
(vi)
“Flora is treading the thorny way that saints have trodden. If your own spirituality, which is in its infancy—in its cradle, I may say—does not enable you to understand that via dolorosa, at least refrain from trivial interpolations and misrepresentations, Lucilla, I beg.”
Canon Morchard’s tone rather suggested commanding, than begging, and his large eyes seemed to flash with indignation as they looked, from beneath corrugated brows, at Lucilla.
She was rather paler than her usually colourless wont.
“I am afraid that Flora is suffering from a very common form of hysteria, father, and I thoroughly distrust any inspiration of hers in her present state of health.”