‘I know what it means, numbskull! Didn’t spend years in the confounded country without picking up some of their infernal tongue. They proved all sorts of things perhaps, but they were thick, unequal, pitiful pieces of work. 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. And from that they came back by way of the Kreutzer Sonata and Resurrection to Tolstoy again. Twice he cleaned the old briar; still there was no improvement. Sheppard. But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed.
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