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. And as for not knowing me, you abominable little liar, you’re perfectly aware that we met at Remenham House. Ruth sighed; Spurlock stood up and drew his hand across his forehead as if awakening from a dream. Nothing but the constraint of social usage now linked him to her.
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