“Sold again,” she remarked. 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. Sometimes these dreams are simple and tender; sometimes they are magnificent. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances.
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