She knew now that he never would. Well might she do so, Gerald thought in irritation. Shortly afterwards,—it seemed an age to the anxious mother,—Mr. 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. It was not a hopeful looking group.
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