Abruptly, Gerald turned. Her senses were prickled when she felt a new pair of eyes upon her. This is one of the late E. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. 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. To hand the key back in silence was like offering a lie. That’s the fact about them.
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