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. ‘For God’s sake, let go my hand,’ he begged. That is my real milieu, and one that I am convinced you would not only adorn but delight in. “Yes. . Mrs. “Anna,” she moaned, “I am a jealous, ungrateful woman. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. ” “You are,” he answered unconsciously.
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