Hannah wasn’t counting the number of strokes, though she guessed she had got to about forty. Miss Leduc’s back was now a deep ruddy colour, criss-crossed with livid welts. Hannah peered at them. Was there a fleck of blood? Perhaps not. She resumed, making sure that she did not relent, that the strokes of the whip were as hard as ever. The whip’s thongs had a sharp feel to them, not soft, and as they lashed across the skin they cut slightly, increasing both the pain and visual effect.
Miss Leduc appeared to be suffering now, her head drooping, her breathe laboured. Hannah kept going. At first she had shrunk from the pain she was inflicting. But as she got into it she had to admit that she was beginning to enjoy it. After a dozen more strokes, she examined Miss Leduc’s back carefully. There
