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. If the young ladies were dowerless, which seemed likely, their attire at least—so Lucilla assured him in a whisper—was of the first stare. The resemblance was amazing! And some man—he was good-looking—was in the background. " "Enough!" rejoined Blueskin. "On my soul, yes," rejoined Jonathan. Toys! Delicate trifles! A sex of invalids. Then, as Ramage readjusted himself in a corner, he remarked: “These young people shoot up, Stanley. Wood, you shan't lord it over me, I can promise you. Anna never knew whither it had led her— sometimes she had fears. To her satisfaction, the captain reddened a trifle.
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