Whichever it was, Wharton cared for none of them.

His blood was up; his fatigue thrown off.

Standing there in front of them, his hands in his pockets, pale with the excitement of speaking, his curly head thrown out against the whitened wall of the chapel, he lashed into the men before him, talking their language, their dialect even; laying bare their weaknesses, sensualities, indecisions; painting in the sombrest colours the grim truths of their melancholy lives.
Marcella could hardly breathe.

It seemed to her that, among these cottagers, she had never lived till now--under the blaze of these eyes--within the vibration of this voice.

Never had she so realised the power of this singular being.