And, thrusting a piece of iron into his mouth, he forced him out of the room. Englishmen also certainly. “Yes?” he said. 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. Empty, silly, coarse brutes. Much more temperate; the discreet and joyless love of a virtuous, reluctant, condescending wife.
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