He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. 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. She was given a glimpse of his soul. “I don’t have time for this.
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