What right had Miss Avies to watch over her? She set back her
shoulders, sat up stiffly, and tried to look as old as she might--
that was not, unhappily, very old. That smile exchanged with Martin
had made her happy for ever. Miss Avies was of less than no
importance at all . . .
The little bell ceased its jangling, the harmonium began a quavering
prelude, and from a door at the back, behind the little platform and
desk, three men entered: first Mr. Thurston; then a little crooked
man who must, Maggie knew, be Mr. Crashaw; finally, in magnificent
contrast, Mr. Warlock. A quiver of emotion passed over the Chapel--
there was then a hushed expectant pause.
"Brothers and sisters, let us pray," said Mr. Thurston.
Maggie had not seen him before; she wondered what strange chance had
led him and Mr. Warlock to work together. In every movement of the
body, in every tone of the voice, Thurston showed the professional
actor--his thoughts were all upon himself and the effect that he was
making. So calculated was he in his attitude that his eyes betrayed
him, having in their gleam other thoughts, other intentions very far
away from his immediate business in the Chapel.
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