Strickland at his own desk dipped quill into ink-well and continued a letter to a friend in England.

The minutes went by.
From the courtyard came a subdued, cheerful household clack and murmur, voices of men and maids, with once Mrs.Jardine's genial, vigorous tones, and once the laird's deep bell note, calling to his dogs.

On the western side fell only the sough of the breeze in the pine.
Jamie ceased the clocklike motion of his body to and fro over the difficult lesson.

"I never understood just what were the Erinnys, sir ?" "The Erinnys ?" Strickland laid down the pen and turned in his chair.
"I'll have to think a moment, to get it straight for you, Jamie....
The Erinnys are the Fates as avengers.

They are the vengeance-demanding part of ourselves objectified, supernaturalized, and named.