He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. 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. Even the basest objects sold in the 24 roadside shops were beautiful in some way. She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas. "What's the matter, lad, after all the wonderful fireworks at lunch?" Spurlock beheld McClintock standing beside him.
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