He had looked into her bloodshot eyes, noted the hard lines drawn around the corners of her mouth, the coarse, painted lips, dry hair, and sunken cheeks.

He had heard her harsh laugh and caught the glint of her drunken leer.

A cold shiver swept through him.

It was as if he had stepped on a flat stone covering a grave which had tilted beneath his feet, revealing a corpse but a few months buried.
Had he been anywhere else he would have sunk to the floor--not to pray, but to rest his knees, which seemed giving out under him.
When service was over, he made his way down the aisle, waited until the last of the worshippers had had their final word with their priest, and, with a respectful bend of the head in recognition, followed Father Cruse into the sacristy.
"You remember me ?" he said in a hoarse, constrained voice when the priest turned and faced him.
"Yes, you are Mr.O'Day--Kitty Cleary's friend, and I need not tell you how glad I am to see you," and he held out a cordial hand.
"I have come as I promised you I would.

Can you give me half an hour ?" "With the greatest pleasure.