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As he gazed down into the courts of the prison, he could not help shuddering, lest a false step might precipitate him below. She was now permitted freely to study the face. There, in a little tea and sweetstuff shop, she bought and consumed slowly and absent-mindedly the insufficient nourishment that is natural to her sex on such occasions. She felt draggled and insulted beyond redemption. “She has nothing to be afraid of,” he continued. 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. CHAPTER XXIV. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured.
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