Maggie felt her earlier emotion
sentimental and false, it was as though he had said to her: "But
that's not the true thing; that's cheap sham emotion. That's what
they're trying to turn our great reality into. I'm fighting them and
you must help me."
He was fighting them. She could imagine Mr. Thurston's scornful
lip, hidden now by his hands. As Mr. Warlock went on with his
dignified sentences, his restraint and his reverence, she could
fancy how Thurston was saying to himself: "But what's the good of
this? It's blood and thunder we want. The old feller's getting past
his work. He must go."
But it was Mr. Warlock's reality of which she was afraid. As he
continued his prayer she felt all her old terror return, that terror
that she had known on the night her father died, during the hours
that she had watched beside his dead body, at the moment when she
had first arrived at the house in London, during her first visit to
the Chapel, when she had said good-night to her aunt before going
out with Uncle Mathew . . . And now Mr. Warlock was sweeping her
still farther inside. The intensity of his belief forced hers.
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