"Truly, you and I must
devise some wickedness to pass the time until kindred spirits return to
the Abbey. Half the monks of Aylingford are in the West, and the nuns
find it dull without them."
"Next week we will go to town," said Mrs. Dearmer. "I love you, Abbot
John, with all the wickedness that is in me, but truly you have grown
dull lately."
No one was better qualified to pass judgment on Sir John than Mrs.
Dearmer. To her he was dull, perhaps the worst crime a man can be guilty
of in the eyes of such a woman, yet the accusation did not trouble him
now as much as it would have done at another time. He was restless, and
if his conscience was too moribund to have the power of pricking, he had
become introspective. Fear and superstition took hold of him, and he
could not shake himself free. The news which the messenger had brought
him was good news, yet, even as the man had delivered it, a candle had
guttered and gone out, and Sir John saw a warning of disaster in the
fact. He was constantly on the watch for such omens, and saw them within
the house and without. He met a new kitchen wench who looked at him with
eyes askew, sure sign of evil.
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