Accordingly, he proceeded to a gate which stood upon the south, and guarded the passage communicating with the leads. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. ‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind 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.
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