"It was really," she said. "I made you come in."
She gave him her cold hand. He raised it and brushed it with his lips and put it from him.
"Your little conscience was always too tender."
LV
Two years passed.
Life stirred again in the Vicarage, feebly and slowly, with the slow and feeble stirring of the Vicar's brain.
Ten o'clock was prayer time again.
Twice every Sunday the Vicar appeared in his seat in the chancel. Twice he pronounced the Absolution. Twice he tottered to the altar rails, turned, shifted his stick from his left hand to his right, and, with his one good arm raised, he gave the Benediction. These were the supreme moments of his life.
Once a month, kneeling at the same altar rails, he received the bread and wine from the hands of his ritualistic curate, Mr. Grierson.
It was his uttermost abasement.