She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window. In Paris, in July, a raging mob had stormed the Bastille, provoking circumspect aristocrats to uproot themselves and take refuge abroad. 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. She shook her head, almost breaking a smile. ‘C’est ridicule. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. " "Be silent dog," cried Jonathan.
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