She became angry with herself. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. 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. He may not know you’re in England, but if he has the smallest knowledge of your character, he must surely be expecting you. She comprehends what we're about.
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