” She said. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. You know very well that you took from my easel David Courtlaw’s study of me, and sent it to Cariolus. 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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