He smiled. 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. If only this child were his: what good times they would have together! The thought passed on, but it left a little ache in his heart. Sister’s got married to that bounder Ferringhall. Tell me I haven’t heard.
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