Without a word a great tenderness filled the space between them; an
interpreting compassion went to and fro. Suddenly a new light dawned in
Hilda's eyes; she leaned forward and met his in an absorption which
caught them out of themselves into some space where souls wander, and
perhaps embrace. The moment died away, neither of them could have
measured it, and when it had finally ebbed--they were conscious of every
subsiding throb--a silence came instead, like a margin for the beauty of
it. After a time the woman spoke. "Once before," she began, but he put
up his hand and she stopped. Then, as if she would no longer be
restrained, "That is all I want," she whispered. "That is enough."
For a time they said very little, looking back upon their divine moment;
the shadows gathered in the corners of the room and made quiet
conversation which was almost audible in the pauses. Then Hilda began to
speak, steadily, calmly. You, too, would have forgotten her folly in
what she found to say, as Arnold did; you, too, would have drawn faith
and courage from her face. One would not be irreverent, but if this
woman were convicted of the unforgivable sin she could explain it and
obtain justification rather than pardon.
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