When he came to a certain sentence in Brendon’s letter he stopped short and looked up at her. 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. Coldly she spoke, in a distinctly accented voice. It wasn’t so much women as Woman that engaged his mind. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. I feel beautiful. " "My negligence, Mr.
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