Everyone who has suffered from scruples will know what I mean when I say that the mental atmosphere in which they live is like that of a forgotten schoolroom at four o’clock on a dark and foggy winter’s day, lit by a low, hissing gas jet, where they sit alone with this tremendous offended God, in an atmosphere permeated by a damp fog of tears. Even the Passion, in this atmosphere, is misunderstood and becomes something oppressive and frightening which aches in the hearts of the victims of scruples like an open sore. They have a kind of obsession for the Presence of God, and yet a real
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