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. “Idiotic, isn’t it?” “Absolutely,” she agreed coldly. “He’d better treat you right this time or I’ll pulverize him, you hear?” Lucy gave in to the hug. Life is so good. On the present occasion, he appeared to have bestowed more than ordinary attention on his toilette. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year.
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