He seemed so young, so helpless, so
unhappy. Every part of him called to her, his hair, his eyes, his
voice, his body. But she held herself in, she never gave way, she
was resolute in her plan.
On their last evening in Lynton Street, for five minutes, he was
suddenly kind to her, almost the old Martin speaking with the old
voice. She held her breath, scarcely daring to let herself know how
happy she was.
"What do you think about God, Maggie?" he asked, turning on the sofa
and looking at her.
"Think about God?" she said, repeating his words.
"Yes . . .Is there one?"
"I don't know. I haven't any intelligence about those things."
"Is there immortality?"
"I don't know."
"I hope not. Your parson thinks there is, doesn't he?"
"Of course he does."
"Did he have lots of services and did you hare to go to them?"
"Yes."
"Poor Maggie--always having to go to them. Well, it's queer. Funny
if there isn't anything after all when there's been such a fight
about it so long. Did they make you very religious at Skeaton or
wherever the place was?"
"No," said Maggie. "They thought me a terrible heathen.
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