“I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. "Well, he's a pretty fellow at all events," observed Mrs. “Oh. 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. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. Leave me behind: I'm not afraid. She grew attached to a pair of twins, a boy named Fritz and a girl named Anna, belonging to an auburn-haired Viennese prostitute named Clotilde. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. I didn’t get it, why she put on the innocent act.
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