From the basement came faint sounds
of laughter. Her landlord and lady were entertaining guests. If they
had not been, she would have found some excuse for running down and
talking to them, if only for a few minutes.
Suddenly the vision of old Chelsea Church rose up before her with its
little motherly old pew-opener. She had so often been meaning to go and
see her again, but something had always interfered. She hunted through
her drawers and found a comparatively sober-coloured shawl, and tucked it
under her cloak. The service was just commencing when she reached the
church. Mary Stopperton showed her into a seat and evidently remembered
her. "I want to see you afterwards," she whispered; and Mary Stopperton
had smiled and nodded. The service, with its need for being continually
upon the move, bored her; she was not in the mood for it. And the
sermon, preached by a young curate who had not yet got over his Oxford
drawl, was uninteresting. She had half hoped that the wheezy old
clergyman, who had preached about Calvary on the evening she had first
visited the church, would be there again.
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