Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. She stood up and he sat down at the microscope, and for a time he was busy scrutinizing one section after another. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. Earles waiting. Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present. “For instance?” She smiled. 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.
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