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Yet there she stood under the self-accusation of wanting him,
tied to that stake of torture. In bitter perplexity she kneeled down and
prayed:
"O Lord, let me not love Paul Morel. Keep me from loving him, if I ought
not to love him."
Something anomalous in the prayer arrested her. She lifted her head and
pondered. How could it be wrong to love him? Love was God's gift. And
yet it caused her shame. That was because of him, Paul Morel. But, then,
it was not his affair, it was her own, between herself and God. She was
to be a sacrifice. But it was God's sacrifice, not Paul Morel's or her
own. After a few minutes she hid her face in the pillow again, and said:
"But, Lord, if it is Thy will that I should love him, make me love
him--as Christ would, who died for the souls of men. Make me love him
splendidly, because he is Thy son."
She remained kneeling for some time, quite still, and deeply moved, her
black hair against the red squares and the lavender-sprigged squares of
the patchwork quilt.


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