“If my own mother was alive,” sobbed Ann Veronica, “she would understand. “I wonder if you will?” “Let me say one thing,” 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. Wild has made up his mind, and, when that's the case, all the persuasion on earth won't turn him. Prison was bleak without spaciousness, and pervaded by a faint, oppressive smell; and she had to wait two hours in the sullenly defiant company of two unclean women thieves before a cell could be assigned to her.
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