‘All right, Trodger. Spurling," rejoined Ireton; "we can taste the rum when he returns. Then she raised the glass nearer to her lips. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. 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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