was on her cheek. At the pause in the chain of hands her hand had lain in his an instant, a soft merchandise.
—You are a great stranger now.—
—Yes. I was born to be a monk.—
—I am afraid you are a heretic.—
—Are you much afraid?—
For answer she had danced away from him along the chain of hands, dancing lightly and discreetly, giving herself to none. The white spray nodded to her dancing and when she was in shadow the glow was deeper on her cheek.
A monk! His own image started forth a profaner of the cloister, a heretic Franciscan, willing and willing not to serve, spinning like Gherardino da Borgo San Donnino, a lithe web of sophistry and whispering in her ear.
No, it was not his image. It was like the image of the young priest in whose company he had seen her last, looking at him out of dove's eyes, toying with the pages of her Irish phrasebook.
—Yes, yes, the ladies are coming round to us. I can see it every day. The ladies are with us. The best helpers the language has.—
—And the church, Father Moran?—
—The church too. Coming round too. The work is going ahead there too. Don't fret about the church.—
Bah! he had done well to leave the room in disdain. He had done well not to salute her on the steps of the library. He had done well to leave her to flirt with her priest, to toy with a church which was the scullery-maid of christendom.
Rude brutal anger routed the last lingering instant of ecstasy from his soul. It broke up violently her fair
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