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. Lucy savored the normalcy of the scene. He was like a man beside himself. "It's a mercy you both escaped!" ejaculated Wood, only just finding his tongue. Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. I felt—wrapped in thick cobwebs. She were that miserable. The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced.
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