“I think they do. 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. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. Only you won’t let me exist!” Mr. Delight surged through her as her breasts, shoulders, and belly touched his naked flesh all at once. "From Lady Trafford's, where I took the box.
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