Until then each stroke had built upon the previous, becoming more and more unendurable, but the third stroke had seemed to be the peak. The fourth stroke only extended the pain. It _was_ agonizing — I could not stop weeping — but it was endurable. I had not screamed and jumped about the room uncontrollably. I had taken my caning like a man! “Very well done,” said the soothing voice of the woman, and I felt her kneel next to me. “I know how hard that was for you. The first caning is always the worst.” Her hand rested on my back as I shuddered and quivered, huge sobs bursting from me uncontrollably. I wept more from relief than from pain, for the pain was already fading.
A Trip to the Head34
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