Outside the door he turned and stared at the panels. She treaded down the hall swiftly but stopped abruptly when she heard a voice in back of her. “I suppose, Mr. 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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