“You are developing far too retentive a memory for praises,” said Ann Veronica. “It seems—It’s interesting. 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. Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. ” She looked at him for a moment with fire in her eyes. That shining slope of snow, and how we talked of death! We might have died! Even when we are old, when we are rich as we may be, we won’t forget the tune when we cared nothing for anything but the joy of one another, when we risked everything for one another, when all the wrappings and coverings seemed to have fallen from life and left it light and fire. A dozen books lay upon the counterpane.
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