The softly glittering summer stars! She saw them shining over mountains of snow, over valleys of haze and warm darkness. ” “Tell me more. ” She massaged him. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. 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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