She had noticed a twenty year pattern emerging, and funny how opportunity seemed to strike just when she was getting truly anxious. At least here she was safe. She put a hand to the lad’s cold cheek and choked on a sob. He followed. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence. 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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