"Breathe at this phial," said Winifred. Moreoever, it had cost her a whipping and several days’ imprisonment in her cell on bread and water. They found Ruth reading to Spurlock, whose shoulders and head were propped by pillows. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. He drew her closer. The rest was easy. To get behind that impenetrable curtain, to learn why she hated her island.
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