"But we must be getting along if we are to lunch in the tower of the water-clock. 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. Her softly intertwined fingers became rigid. He carried a small bag. Sweatshirts and sweatpants were in for a while but they’re out now. “How would you know?” Michelle’s interest was piqued. He resumed his listening.
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