He heard the struggle on the landing, the fall of the heavy body, the groan,—and excited almost to frenzy by his fears, he succeeded in forcing open the door. The truth was impossible, indecent. At this time of day the priest would be at his apartments in Brewer Street, a short walk away from Golden Square which the building overlooked. A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart.
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