Her gray dress was turned up in front
over a crimson moreen petticoat. She had on a cozy jacket, a fur turban of
some sort with a red breast in it, and her cheeks were flushed from exertion.
"Sweet records, and promises as sweet," had always met in Nancy's face, and
either he had forgotten how pretty she was, or else she had absolutely grown
prettier during his absence.
Nancy would have chosen the supreme moment of meeting very differently, but
she might well have chosen worse. She unpinned her skirt and brushed the
threads off, smoothed the pew cushions carefully, and took a last stitch in
the ragged hassock. She then lifted the Bible and the hymn-book from the rack,
and putting down a bit of flannel on the pulpit steps, took a flatiron from an
oil-stove, and opening the ancient books, pressed out the well-thumbed leaves
one by one with infinite care. After replacing the volumes in their accustomed
place, she first extinguished the flame of her stove, which she tucked out of
sight, and then blew out the lamp and the candle. The church was still light
enough for objects to be seen in a shadowy way, like the objects in a dream,
and Justin did not realize that he was a man in the flesh, looking at a woman;
spying, it might be, upon her privacy.
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