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This was Zoe's shrine, a fitting one for her who had been born at the ringing of the Angelus. She knew every line of the picture, every tint, every trace, every cracking and peeling of the paint. Her knees became familiar with the tiniestrise and fall of the hard stone floor, as the fingers of the blind become familiar with the feel of the objects around them. All her life she feared that her attitude at prayer might not be humble enough for the house of God. She bore the sensible remembrance of it until the day she died, in the arthritis of the knees which she contracted from her long hours of kneeling on the stone flags of the floor. |
