I've just
heard of some sort of a society got up by women out in Cambridge, where
they deduce the ethnic sources of prophetic inspiration--whatever that
means!--from the 'Arabian Nights' and 'Mother Goose.' You might find
something there to suit you."
He could not answer her; he could only wonder whether she disapproved
of what he had done, or if she were vexed with him for coming to her.
"It's possible," she went on mercilessly, a fresh note of mockery in
her voice, "that Berenice might help you. Very often a woman wins
converts where a priest fails. After last night"--
He came to his feet with a spring.
"Don't!" he exclaimed. "I can't stand any more. Do you think that it's
been easy for me to find out the truth about myself; to have to own
that I've been a cheating fool, without honesty enough to know my own
mind? As for Miss Morison"--
His voice failed him. He was unnerved; the reaction from his long
vigil, from his interview with Father Frontford, overcame him. The
simple mention of the name of Berenice made him choke, and he stood
there speechless. His cousin rose and came to him softly.
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