“It doesn’t matter,” she said, after a long interval, “if they are absurd. Aren’t I asking—asking plainly now?. Only Gwen left a letter on the pincushion. 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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