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And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. My heart would speak if it could, for it is very full. “Okay. They are rather a long way off, but you could write to them. A fever of shame ran through her being. Don’t be afraid to go on thinking it. “Shot through the lungs,” he remarked.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 27-09-2024 09:50:32