“Two,” said Mr. Rochester.
The strap was heavy. Each time it hit me I felt myself pushed forward by its weight. I did my best to retain my position. I gritted my teeth so that my cries of pain would be muffled. He hit me with a steady rhythm, each stroke, as it seemed to me, being given just enough time to sink in fully before the next one arrived. His aim was unerring; every time the strap landed in the same place, so that soon my bottom burned as if on fire. But something was happening to me. As Mr. Rochester continued to apply the strap, the pain increased, but so did my ability to absorb it. And then, in some strange way, I began to welcome each stroke, arching my back a little more, raising my bottom towards the tawse. I do not mean to say that it didn’t hurt any more. It hurt a lot.
