"Poor Jack!" cried Winifred, burying her face in her lover's bosom. He is already married. "We shall be obliged to force it. Confound this slavery of sex! I am a man! I will get this under if I am killed in doing it!” She scowled into the cold blacknesses about her. 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. Anyhow he confessed that he was a fraud.
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