Like the ticking of his heart!
I rise
To depart, still glancing with piteous eyes
On Sister Anne; and I find her face
Turn'd questioning still to the same old place—
The face of the Saint. I stand and bow,
Curtsies again are bobbing now,
Dresses rustling... I know no more
Till the Saint has led me to the door,
And I find myself in a day-dream dim,