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He felt that her words, after the strange fashion God sometimes chose to speak to men, were dictated by Heaven and were meant for him.
And, having thought of it as the face of a stranger, he tried to look at it as a stranger might, and tried to discover what other people saw.
“Ain’t but you two who cleaned the church?” asked Sister McCandless with an unnerving smile—the smile of the prophet who sees the secrets hidden in the hearts of men.
Her mother had taught her that the way to pray was to forget everything and everyone but Jesus; to pour out of the heart, like water from a bucket, all evil thoughts, all thoughts of self, all malice for one’s enemies; to come boldly, and yet more humbly than a little child, before the Giver of all good things. Yet, in Florence’s heart tonight hatred and bitterness weighed like granite, pride refused to abdicate from the throne it had held so long. Neither love nor humility had led her to the altar, but only fear. And God did not hear the prayers of the fearful, for the hearts of the fearful
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They, who walked so proudly now, had not fashioned for themselves or their children so sure a foundation as was hers.
And why did she weep? And why did they come here, night after night after night, calling out to a God who cared nothing for them—if, above this flaking ceiling, there was any God at all?
Looking at his face, it sometimes came to her that all women had been cursed from the cradle; all, in one fashion or another, being given the same cruel destiny, born to suffer the weight of men.
And he feared to make a vow before Heaven until he had the strength to keep it. And yet he knew that until he made the vow he would never find the strength.
she contained only the shame that she had borne—shame, unless a miracle of human love delivered her, was all she had to give.
and he seemed with every passing day to carry more proudly the doom printed on his brow.
he wanted to hate him, to cherish that hatred, and give his hatred words one day.
and in their hearts, cursed God. They all seemed to be saying, as Richard, when she once timidly mentioned the love of Jesus, said: “You can tell that puking bastard to kiss my big black ass.”
yet she could not deny that for such an abundance of bitterness there was a positive fountain of grief.
She had tried, but she had never been and was not now, even tonight, truly sorry.
What life had made him bear, her lover, this wild, unhappy boy, many another stronger and more virtuous man might not have borne so well.
