All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. She saw his face change, how he regretted. But I’m going to-day. She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. Deep silences came between them. 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. Nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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