The aunt laughed. “The conventions do not matter one little bit. ” “I think,” Anna said, “that it was only his manner. Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. 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. What news.
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