” Her heart had warmed toward him. 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. Ruth's emotion was a primitive joy: she was essential in this man's life, and she would always be happy because he would always be needing her. But it’s as you say. She seemed just as stiff and shy as a girl ought to be, Lady Palsworthy thought, neither garrulous nor unready, and free from nearly all the heavy aggressiveness, the overgrown, overblown quality, the egotism and want of consideration of the typical modern girl. Who is to say that I am not André Valade, an obscure relation of the late vicomte.
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