They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. Here goes. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. She must get to the vestry. They are not bad girls, but the average tourist has that misconception of them. Instead, her husband was probably wise. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust. She had gone into Morgan's one afternoon for a bag of salt. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation.
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