"
And then he had wandered off into a maze of detail. The tradesman,
dreaming perhaps of becoming a Whiteley, having to choose whether to go
forward or remain for all time in the little shop. The statesman--should
he abide by the faith that is in him and suffer loss of popularity, or
renounce his God and enter the Cabinet? The artist, the writer, the mere
labourer--there were too many of them. A few well-chosen examples would
have sufficed. And then that irritating cough!
And yet every now and then he would be arresting. In his prime, Joan
felt, he must have been a great preacher. Even now, decrepit and wheezy,
he was capable of flashes of magnetism, of eloquence. The passage where
he pictured the Garden of Gethsemane. The fair Jerusalem, only hidden
from us by the shadows. So easy to return to. Its soft lights shining
through the trees, beckoning to us; its mingled voices stealing to us
through the silence, whispering to us of its well-remembered ways, its
pleasant places, its open doorways, friends and loved ones waiting for
us. And above, the rock-strewn Calvary: and crowning its summit, clear
against the starlit sky, the cold, dark cross.
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