The conviction of her helplessness prostrated her. She
sate her down upon the steps before the door of that dreary
house, within the railings of that gloomy court, and buried
her face in her hands: a wild vision of the past and the
future, without thought or feeling, coherence or consequence:
sunset gleams of vanished bliss, and stormy gusts of impending
doom.
The clock of St John's struck seven.
It was the only thing that spoke in that still and dreary
square; it was the only voice that there seemed ever to sound;
but it was a voice from heaven; it was the voice of St John.
Sybil looked up: she looked up at the holy building. Sybil
listened: she listened to the holy sounds. St John told her
that the danger of her father was yet so much advanced. Oh!
why are there saints in heaven if they cannot aid the saintly!
The oath that Morley would have enforced came whispering in
the ear of Sybil--"Swear by the holy Virgin and by all the
saints."
And shall she not pray to the holy Virgin and all the saints?
Sybil prayed: she prayed to the holy Virgin and all the
saints; and especially to the beloved St John: most favoured
among Hebrew men, on whose breast reposed the divine Friend.
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