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. He sent me home. There was a new softness in her eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost pathetic. She saw how overworked he was. E. "What?—help take care of him? Why, you can't do that, Miss Enschede!" was the protest.
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