The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. His kind eyes were puffy with fatigue. 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. His two wives have been here.
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