who retailed a store of faded learning in the Tredgold laboratory. Sheppard's weight had destroyed the equilibrium of the plank: it swerved, and slowly descended. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. “H’m!” he said, regarding the wreckage with a calmer visage. 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. Yet he stays. We’re closer than you think. ‘You have rifled his papers.
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