You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. I struck him across the face, jumped out and went back by train to Paris. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. 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. Half after six.
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