If the creator drew a hero anything like himself, she would accept it as a sign that he did care a little. 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. He seemed safe from the sickness, having been surrounded by the dying, he had witnessed the carnage up close and yet his health still prevailed. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Anyway, I only smoke occasionally. And I think I must pursue my acquaintance with the fulsome Madame Valade. Having now fairly got out of Newgate for the second time, with a heart throbbing with exultation, he hastened to make good his escape.
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