Her motherly features creased into anxious wrinkles. "Give me your hand, Poll, to help me through," cried Jack, as he accomplished the operation. 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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