But even while I was struggling—trying to fly away from my greatest happiness—I was praying with all my might that the strong arms would hold me, conquer me, master me.
They did. And then something seemed to give way within my head, and through a roaring that came into my brain I heard the voice again, and it was saying:
"Quick, Sister, call a cab. Open the door, O'Sullivan. No, leave her to me. I've got her, thank God!"
And then blinding darkness fell over me and everything was blotted out.
But only a moment afterwards (or what seemed to be a moment) memory came back in a great swelling wave of joy. Though I did not open my eyes I knew that I was safe and baby was safe, and all was well. Somebody—it was the same beloved voice again—was saying:
"Mally! My Mally! My poor, long-suffering darling! My own again, God bless her!"
It was he, it was Martin, my Martin. And, oh Mother of my Lord, he was carrying me upstairs in his arms.