’ Kimble nodded. I too, Anna, have watched and read of your success with—I must confess it—some misgiving. What was the alternative to going home? No alternative appeared in that darkness. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. 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's not to be thought of,' says I, thumping the table till every glass on it jingled; 'and I know a way as'll prevent it. It is a plain case of alcoholic stupor.
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