There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. 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. See paragraph 1. "All my life I've dreamed of something like this," he said, divertingly, with a gesture which included the yacht. “The young lady, I presume, told you that her name was Anna,” he remarked.
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