‘Well?’ she said. The bliss had lasted one hundred and forty years, far more than an entire mortal lifetime. Spurlock bent his head to his knees. I wish nothing at all from them. 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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