He thought of the night in New York when she had knocked on his
door, and called to him, a stranger, for help. He thought how he had seen
her, drowned in the waves of her hair, like the angel of his dreams.
"Do you hear that?" she whispered, letting him keep her hand, even
clasping his with her fingers. "There's something alive in this church,
something besides ourselves."
Nick felt giddy. It was all he could do to keep himself from catching her
in his arms, no matter what might be the consequences, no matter how she
might hate him a moment afterward. But he resisted, and the strain of
temptation passed.
"A bird has got in, perhaps," he said.
"You--you--don't think it could be the Padre himself ill, or--or----"
Nick understood her hesitation and fear.
"No," he soothed her. "We'd have seen any but some small thing. I've got
two or three matches in my box, I guess. We'll have a look around." This
was supreme self-sacrifice on his part, for to find matches and "look
around" meant letting Angela's hand go. To let it go was tempting
Providence, since almost certainly she would never, of her own accord,
slip it into his again.
"Yes, do let us," she said, and drew the hand away. Nick supposed she had
hardly been conscious that he had held her fingers in his, and even
pressed them.
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