. .
The woman next her was crying rubbing the knuckles of her shabby old
gloves in her eyes, the bugles on her bonnet shaking like live
things.
She snuffled through her nose to Maggie "Beautiful--beautiful--I
'aven't 'eard such preaching since I don't know when."
Thurston again rose.
"A solo will now be sung," he said. "After the singing of the solo
there will be a prayer offered, then a procession, headed by the
choir, will be formed to march, with lanterns, through the town, as
a witness to the glory of God. It is hoped that those of the
congregation who have received comfort and help during this service
will join in the procession. There will be a collection for the
expenses of the Mission at the door."
Maggie watching him wondered. Of what was he thinking? Was there any
truth in him? Had he, perhaps, behind the sham display and
advertisement that he had been building felt something stirring? Was
he conscious, against his own will, of his falsehood? Had he, while
building only his own success, made a discovery? She looked at him.
The dramatic mask hid him from her. She could not, tell what he was.
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