This charming novella by Violet Trefusis packs a lot of whallop.
The astute reader can sense where this is going, but doesn't
quite want to give creed to the same primitive superstition that
forms the basis for the plot.
After finishing it, you're still not quite sure about the undergirding,
and the emotional response of the reader
is analogous to the protagonist's, although
that's where the similarity ends.
The cultural rituals of hermetically-sealed Scotland are unpropped if not
laid bare, and this is reassuring for literary bitches like me --
i.e. to know that the erring of a head for puns is
less of an issue than killing the deus ex machina that is
Trefusis's hermeneutics.