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. The future? He dared not speculate upon that. Find your man, that’s the rule. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. ‘No, let me guess,’ he interrupted. Melusine cast one swift glance at it, and her eyes, flashing magnificently, came back to his face.
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