He
should not have her.
He walked on quickly, taking no precautions. He had lost sight of
Henrietta and he could not even hear the sound of her steps, yet he
had no doubt but he would find her, and she was not far to seek. A
turn of the road brought him under the shadow of the cathedral and, in
the paved square surrounded by old houses in which it stood, he saw
her. Apparently at that moment she also saw him, for with an
incredibly swift movement and a furtiveness which wrung his heart, she
slipped into the porch and disappeared. He followed. The door was
unlocked and she had passed through it, but he lingered there,
fancying he could smell the faint sweetness of her presence. Within,
the organ was booming softly and in that sound he forgot, for a
moment, the necessity for action. The music seemed to be wonderfully
complicated with the waft of Henrietta's passage, with his love for
her, with all he imagined her to be, but the forgetfulness was only
for that moment, and he pushed open the door.
8
The place was dimly lighted. Two candles, like stars, twinkled on the
distant altar; a few people sat in the darkness with an extraordinary
effect of personal sorrow. This was not where happy people came to
offer thanks; it was a refuge for the afflicted, a temporary harbour
for the weary. They did not seem to pray; they sat relaxed, wrapped in
the antique peace, the warm, musty smell of the building, sitting with
the stillness of their desire to preserve this safety which was theirs
only for a little while.
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