" Suddenly he paused, looked about
him, stared over the congregation as though he were searching for
somebody, then slowly again went on and finished:
"Here endeth--the Second Lesson."
Then, instead of turning, he leaned forward, gripping the Lectern with
both hands, and seemed again to be searching for some one.
"Looks as though he were going to have a stroke," thought Puddifoot. Then
very carefully, as though he were moving in darkness, he turned and groped
his way downwards. With bent head he walked back into the choir.
Soon they were scattered--every one according to his or her own
individuality--the prayers had broken them up, too many of them, too long,
and the wooden kneelers so hard. Minds flew like birds about the
Cathedral--ideas, gold and silver, black and grey, soapy and soft, hard as
iron. The men yawned behind their trumpets, the School played Noughts and
Crosses--the Old Lady and her Triumph stepped away into limbo.
And then suddenly it was time for the Bishop's sermon. Every one hoped
that it would not be long; passing clouds veiled the light behind the East
window and the Roses faded to ashes.
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