Hilary threw up his eyes. And I want you for myself—for my wife. 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. ‘Up, Jacques, up,’ she ordered. Or else he was indeed obsessed. "I'm my own master now, and I'll do as I please.
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