You called yourself a murderess. “For luck. And all to satisfy a succession of rapacious lightskirts. ‘Jacques! This—this bête he attacks me, and you stand there and you do nothing. 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.
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