No
philosophic doubt permitted to them. No learned disputation on the
relationship between the literal and the allegorical for the easing of
their frenzied fears. How many million tiny white-faced figures
scattered over Christian Europe and America, stared out each night into a
vision of black horror; how many million tiny hands clutched wildly at
the bedclothes. The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children,
if they had done their duty, would have prosecuted before now the
Archbishop of Canterbury.
Of course she would go to Hell. As a special kindness some generous
relative had, on Joan's seventh birthday, given her an edition of Dante's
"Inferno," with illustrations by Dore. From it she was able to form some
notion of what her eternity was likely to be. And God all the while up
in His Heaven, surrounded by that glorious band of praise-trumpeting
angels, watching her out of the corner of His eye. Her courage saved her
from despair. Defiance came to her aid. Let Him send her to Hell! She
was not going to pray to Him and make up to Him.
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