” He said cruelly as she gazed at him in fear. “Your mother was a Gypsy. There is something in prayer; not that there may be any noticeable result, any definite answer; but no human being can offer an honest prayer to God without gaining immeasurably in courage, in fortitude, in resignation, and that alone is worth the effort. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. But I liked to say it.
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