” She barked. Something forbade him to draw her toward him and seal the compact with a kiss. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. The Protestant Flagellant, who whipped his soul rather than his body, who made self-denial the rack and the boot, who believed that on Sunday it was sacrilegious to smile, blasphemous to laugh! Spurlock had gone back spiritually three hundred years. ” “The truth,” she murmured, with her eyes fixed upon him.
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