Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. " "You can give me a little of his history, can't you? Something about his people?" "Oh, his folks were all right. Did you realize?\" Lucy's mouth twisted into a half-smile that she could not help. “It was,” she admitted. 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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