. . You made many friends and went into their
houses and were glad with them, and I, knowing my secret, did not dare to
follow, but stayed at home and closed the door, shut out the sun and sat
in darkness. What should I have done in honest households? My past was
ever with me. . . . And you thought I didn't care for the pleasant things
of life. I tell you I longed for them, but did not dare to touch them,
feeling I had no right. You thought I was happier working amongst the
poor. That was my mission, you imagined. It was not, but where else was
I to go? The sick do not ask if the hand that smooths their pillow is
pure, nor the dying care if the lips that touch their brow have known the
kiss of sin. It was you I thought of all the time; I gave to them the
love you did not need: lavished on them a love that was not theirs . . .
And you thought I spent too much of my time in going to Church, and in
Church duties. But where else could I turn? God's house is the only
house where sinners are made welcome, and you were always in my heart,
Gerald, too much in my heart.
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