There must be something, one feels, in ideas that achieve persistently a successful resurrection. It would be protective; it would with age turn to silver unnoticeably. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. Norris entered the room, followed by Father Spencer.
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