A long shrill cat-call in the gallery seemed to be the signal. "I cannot do it. She rapped again, louder. . . Wood hadn't struck me. 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. I have but to give a hint of that boy's existence in the proper quarter, and his life will not be worth a day's purchase.
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