With this view, he descended the hill and presently found a footpath leading to the church. ‘Quite wrong, monsieur. “Yeah, but I have two brothers. It rained slightly, and a thick mist gathered in the air, and obscured the beautiful prospect. As the Wastrel played, Spurlock knew that the man saw the inevitable end—death by drink; saw the glory of the things he had thrown away, the past, once so full of promise. 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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