” She smiled at him, an understanding smile, but her words defied him. ‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés. “Ann Veronica,” he said, “I tell you this is love. 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.
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