She was emerging from the primordial as Spurlock was declining toward it. 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. "You soon shall," rejoined Sheppard. "The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. "I thought you'd have got rid of your ill-humour by this time.
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