"Mother! dear mother!" cried Jack, folding her to his breast. As for that, what man ever had? "That's a remarkable young woman," he offered, merely to note what effect it would have. 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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