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He looked at his friend. She answered him with another kiss, long and deep. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. ‘Oh, dearie me, I wish I’d never told you anything about it,’ lamented the nun, moving to the only chair the vestry possessed and sinking down into it. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy.
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