She wished she had not stood up. “I shall probably want you to come down to the ‘Unusual’ to-morrow morning,” he said. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. A crisis had been reached, and she was almost glad it had been reached. “Where am I?” he muttered. I don’t care WHAT happens. And I affirm to you, on my own conviction, that she who falls, because she has not strength granted her to struggle with affliction, may be reclaimed,—may repent, and be forgiven,—even as she, whose sins, 'though many, were forgiven her'. But now Ann Veronica knew what was the matter with her.
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