Our domestic
matters were ordered by the elderly housekeeper of our neighbour on the
second floor, a Canon of the Cathedral, lent for the emergency. She,
too, spoke but seldom. She wore a black dress with a cross hanging by a
chain on her ample bosom. And though when she spoke she moved her lips
more than the nuns, she never let her voice rise above a peacefully
murmuring note. The air around me was all piety, resignation, and
silence.
I don't know what would have become of me if I had not been a reading
boy. My prep. finished I would have had nothing to do but sit and watch
the awful stillness of the sick room flow out through the closed door and
coldly enfold my scared heart. I suppose that in a futile childish way I
would have gone crazy. But I was a reading boy. There were many books
about, lying on consoles, on tables, and even on the floor, for we had
not had time to settle down. I read! What did I not read! Sometimes
the elder nun, gliding up and casting a mistrustful look on the open
pages, would lay her hand lightly on my head and suggest in a doubtful
whisper, "Perhaps it is not very good for you to read these books.
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