" The doctor ran his fingers through his hair, despairingly. A species of vertigo seized him. It wound around a small manufactured lake. 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. And empty. The Oriental waterfronts were rank with the stuff. Last time I left home I felt as hard as nails. "At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to be committed.
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