Her mouth was worthy of her face; with small, pearly-white teeth; lips glossy, rosy, and pouting; and the sweetest smile imaginable, playing constantly about them. Keeping hold of the doorhandle, she turned slowly. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. ’ ‘The word of whom?’ came scoffingly from the pretty lips. 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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