One of them was a stout square-built man, with a singularly swarthy complexion, and harsh forbidding features. 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. Poor little one. The kindly faced landlady had failed to catch his name, and said he was a tall, handsome gentleman with a great black mustache.
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