"Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. But these fears, like those he had recently experienced, speedily vanished, and he prepared to return to the roof, congratulating himself that owing to the opportune falling of the bricks, he had in all probability escaped serious injury. Insulting cries became frequent and various, but for the most part she could not understand what was said. After all, what could happen? He was looking at her very hard and earnestly. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” It was as much an accusation as a question. 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. “Of course you don’t. "Is it gold?" "Pure gold," replied Kneebone.
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