"
Leicester Street is but a ten minutes' walk from Golden Square, and
Brigit felt as she walked that the world was meant for better things
than tragedy, after all.
Her torture of Joyselle the evening before had been infinitely cruel,
and yet her love for him had grown as she tortured him. She was as yet
quite unused to the dominion of her own emotions, and they, being so
much stronger than her self-control, had carried her away with them. It
had been a kind of mental fakirism, and as fakirs smile as they burn and
cut themselves, so she had been able to smile as she burnt and cut at
her own heart in Joyselle. Yet she was not an altogether cruel woman.
And this quiet walk with the homely, good, little Felicite tranquillised
and steadied her maddened nerves and brought reason to her mind.
Felicite left her basket in the vestibule of the church, and going in
dipped her fingers into the holy water fountain and held her hand out to
Brigit.
Unconsciously the girl touched it, and then, as the other woman turned
and knelt at one of the worn praying-desks, Brigit hastily touched her
own forehead and breast.
The drop of water stayed for some seconds on her forehead, and in its
coolness seemed to burn her.
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