Flora’s voice was rapt and unfaltering.
Lucilla did not move, nor raise her eyes.
It was Owen Quentillian, poignantly and unwillingly conscious of pathos, who set his teeth in a profound and intense resentment at the obvious emotional appeal that he found himself unable to ignore.
He unspeakably dreaded the breakdown of the Canon’s composure that he foresaw, when Flora’s last note had died away into silence.
He could not look up.
“Flora!”
The Canon’s voice was steady and gentle.
“Thank you, my child. Bid me good-night, and go, now. You must have some rest, before your journey tomorrow.”
She came to him and he blessed and kissed her as usual, only letting his hand linger for a moment on her head as he repeated as though speaking to himself:
“And with the morn those Angel faces smile