Larry kept digging heartily into his spaghetti, not intrigued in the slightest. “Your success here is absolutely meteoric. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. She felt surges of longing escape every corner of her flesh. Long ago. The longing to talk to someone! But in the end she had gone to her room without giving in to the craving. 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. Maggot. ‘That is good.
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