“But why is it preposterous?” asked Ann Veronica, and fiddled with a pipe on the mantel. 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. "Lost no time on the road—eh!—I didn't expect you till to-morrow at the earliest. But, by Jove! it’s going to make our loving a fiercely abstract thing. T’weren’t fitting, we knew that. I can’t stand it.
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