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. "He who breaks faith with his benefactor may well justify himself thus," answered Jack. ‘Imbecile. ‘Only you made me lose my temper, and—’ ‘I made you do so? Pah!’ Gerald at last succeeded in ripping the handkerchief from her grasp, and swiftly held it to her neck, oblivious to her now bloodied fingers clawing at his hand. There was a new softness in her eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost pathetic. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica.
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