"My dear," Esther cried, impulsively taking his hand. "You frightened
me. What was the matter?"
He did not answer for a moment or two, because he wanted her to hold his
hand a little while longer, so much time was to come when she would
never hold it.
"Whenever I dip my hand in cold water," he said at last, "I shall think
of you. Why did you say that about the demons of the night?"
She dropped his hand in comprehension.
"You're disgusted with me," he murmured. "I'm not surprised."
"No, no, you mustn't think of me like that. I'm still a very human
Esther, so human that the Reverend Mother has made me wait an extra year
to be professed. But, Mark dear, can't you understand, you who know what
I endured in this place, that I am sometimes tempted by memories of
him, that I sometimes sin by regrets for giving him up, my dead lover
so near to me in this place. My dead love," she sighed to herself, "to
whose memory in my pride of piety I thought I should be utterly
indifferent."
A spasm of jealousy had shaken Mark while Esther was speaking, but by
the time she had finished he had fought it down.
"I think I must have loved you all this time," he told her.
"Mark dear, I'm ten years older than you. I'm going to be a nun for what
of my life remains.
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