’ ‘A pretty tale. 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. "I was going to die, Hoddy!" she whispered. Nevertheless, relief washed over her, her body rejoicing in the afterglow of twenty years of tension released. “I am sorry,” she said, “if you find the likeness unsatisfactory.
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