The
pale December sun rose above the mist as she reached the corner of
Westminster Bridge, turning the river into silver and flooding the silent
streets with a soft, white, tender light.
The tower of Chelsea Church brought back to her remembrance of the wheezy
old clergyman who had preached there that Sunday evening, that now seemed
so long ago, when her footsteps had first taken her that way by chance.
Always she had intended making inquiries and discovering his name. Why
had she never done so? It would surely have been easy. He was someone
she had known as a child. She had become quite convinced of that. She
could see his face close to hers as if he had lifted her up in his arms
and was smiling at her. But pride and power had looked out of his eyes
then.
It was earlier than the time she had fixed in her own mind and, pausing
with her elbows resting on the granite parapet, she watched the ceaseless
waters returning to the sea, bearing their burden of impurities.
"All roads lead to Calvary." It was curious how the words had dwelt with
her, till gradually they had become a part of her creed.
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