It occurred to her that it was absurd and wrong to be so continuously thinking of one engrossing topic, and she made a strenuous effort to force her mind to other questions. . . "No!" she cried. If you ride past the church, and mount the hill, you'll come to Neasdon and then you'll not have above half a mile to go. That would be an unkind twist of fate. Without a word or a gesture, the Wastrel turned and staggered forth, out of the orbit of these two, having been thrust into it for a single purpose already described. ‘Gerald, this is a nun’s habit. A pretty piece. You refuse me your confidence. Darting quickly to the chest that contained the priest’s vestments, she leapt onto it and reached her arm down to scrabble behind it on the floor. . She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support.
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