They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. 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. I’ll have to wait here, of course, which means you, Hilary—’ ‘Will have to do tomorrow’s patrol. One of those hanging moments ensued— hypnotic.
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