The pencil
was in her hand, resting on the page. Her brain willed her fingers to
conquer their heaviness, their farawayness, and write:
"God seems like you when you told me I needn't be frightened about Louis
any more--"
The crashings in her ears grew fainter. More light came.
"No. He is more than that. He is the sun that is shining and the soft
noise that is coming up from the sea--and Andrew's laughing--No--those
were only His robes that I was looking at!--God is the courage you
loved--God is the courage; His clothes are loving-kindness--"
In that moment that the structure of her life fell inwards she saw still
more.
"I know now that I need not regret all these greeds and hungers and
prides of mine that have been unfulfilled. They have been burned out by
the courage and the loving-kindness--"
The pencil rolled on to the floor; what her spirit had willed to tell
him her fingers had made a weak scrawl of straggling, futile marks.
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