Nothing at all. 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 was out of breath, and spoke in broken sentences. I don’t want to influence you unduly—But—They’re artistic people, Vee. He did not even reply to her for several minutes. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it. She turned out the electric light and gained the hall.
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