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. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. But whither The Tigress was bound or who the owner was lay beyond the reach of Ah Cum's deductions. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock. And always they were well satisfied.
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