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From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. 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. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. Smith, "upon my conscience.

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