Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. 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.
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