Blood and agony had made it the mystical symbol
that it was--blood and agony.
She had something to think out. That burden was still upon her mind,
and now again she felt its weight, a weight that her interview with the
priest had not lifted. For she had not been able to be quite frank with
the priest. Something had held her back from absolute sincerity, and so
he had not spoken quite plainly all that was in his mind. His words had
been a little vague, yet she had understood the meaning that lay behind
them.
Really, he had warned her against Androvsky. There were two men of very
different types. One was unworldly as a child. The other knew the world.
Neither of them had any acquaintance with Androvsky's history, and both
had warned her. It was instinct then that had spoken in them, telling
them that he was a man to be shunned, perhaps feared. And her own
instinct? What had it said? What did it say?
For a long time she remained in the church. But she could not think
clearly, reason calmly, or even pray passionately. For a vagueness had
come into her mind like the vagueness of twilight that filled the space
beneath the starry roof, softening the crudeness of the ornaments, the
garish colours of the plaster saints.
Pages:
427
428
429
430
431
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451