Sister Angela stood in the cold, dark hall listening, and when the door of the west wing chamber closed, she felt, once more, secure. Sister Angela was never able to describe afterward the state of mind that made the happenings of the next few hours seem like flaming pillars against a dead blur of sensation.
There was the sound of wheels. That set every nerve tense.
Meredith was in her arms—clinging, sobbing, and repeating:
"He must never have my child, Sister. Promise, promise!"
"I promise, my darling. I promise." Angela heard herself saying the words as if they proceeded from the lips of a stranger.
"Has Doris come?"
"Not yet. She will be here soon."
"I can trust you and Doris. Doris knows. And now—I let go!"
Where had Sister Angela heard those words before? They went whirling through her brain as if on a mighty wheel.
"I have—let go!"