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. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. ” “It’s the perpetual trouble,” he said, “of parent and child. You cannot draw. Then he sat down and filled his pipe slowly and thoughtfully. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. ‘Bring her to me and we shall see.
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