"Don't you know it is not proper to pray so that people can
hear you? — 'tisn't the way to do. Witches pray that way — not
good Christian people. I regard it as a very fortunate thing,
Daisy, that we have got you safe out of her hands. Don't you
think that prayer ought to be private?"
"Yes," said Daisy. She was overwhelmed with the rapidity and
liveliness of Gary's utterances, which he rattled forth as
lightly as if they had been the multiplication table.
"Yes, just so. It is not even a matter to be talked about —
too sacred — so I am offending even against my own laws; but I
wanted to know how far the old witch had got hold of you.
Didn't you feel when you heard her mutterings, as if some sort
of a spell was creeping over you?"
Daisy wished some sort of a spell could come over _him_; but she
did not know what to say.
"Didn't you gradually grow into the belief that she was a sort
of saint, Daisy?"
"What is a saint, Mr. McFarlane?"
Gary at that wheeled partly round, and stroked his chin and
moustache with the most comical expression of doubt and
confusion.
"I declare I don't know, Daisy! I think it means a person who
is too good for this world, and therefore isn't allowed to
live here.
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