Of course there were goats. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. 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.
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