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. There was nothing in the pockets of the coat. I owed his father a grudge: that I settled long ago. But I'm sure it's important. “Well anyhow—I don’t see the force of your objection, you know. These thoughts, however, came to a broken end. They fight over money all of the time.
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