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. The effort to maintain her self-control was almost superhuman. And you tell me that the reason you are doing all this is so that you can marry an Englishman!’ Melusine giggled. I cannot go on. It was intolerable to think that he might overhear words and phrases. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail.
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