She released her clutch on it as, dizzy with exhaustion, she leaned against the back of the pew and closed her eyes, her fingers grasping out automatically for support. She would marry him. Her aunt arrived about halfpast ten, in black and with an unusually thick spotted veil. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. He made a movement toward her, and then recalled the circumstances of their last conversation in that study. It was hard to gain weight when you hated to eat.
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