It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. 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. She wondered if the second part would overcome his objections? Several times the words had rushed to her tongue, to find her tongue paralysed.
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