" It was curiously like the intermittent murmur of the surf, those weird Sundays, when her father paused for breath to launch additional damnation for those who disobeyed the Word. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. Steeples toppled, and towers reeled beneath its fury. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. ” “Say that again, Lucy, so that the rest of them hear it. Ruth will be a gold mine for a man of your peculiar bent.
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