She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. “It is a hateful story. She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. Sometimes her straying mind would become astonishingly active—embroidering bright and decorative things that she could say to Capes; sometimes it passed into a state of passive acquiescence, into a radiant, formless, golden joy. Larry fell off the truck the Wednesday night before she planned on leaving. How did you meet him?’ ‘He was wounded and came to the convent for sanctuary,’ Melusine told him, stung by his criticism into revealing more than she had intended. But still she knew they were not right, and at times they became a horrible obsession as of something waiting for her round the corner. She visualized him as in a policeman’s uniform and quite impassive.
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