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 an unthinking mind the episode would be ordinary, trivial; but to the doctor, who had had plenty of time to think during his sojourn in China, it was basic of the child's unhappiness. " "I cannot repent,—I cannot pray," replied Jack, recovering his hardened demeanour. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. She clasped her hands over her mouth in a silent scream. " "On my soul, Thames, you wrong me!" replied Jack, passionately. ‘Quickly! You must get up.
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