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Updated: June 11, 2025
You who know the song of Dierdre of Naoise, fairest of the sons of Uisneach, and the charms of each glen she sings of in Alba you will know the quality I mean.... "Beloved, the water o'er pure sand, Oh, that I might not part from the East, But that I go with my Beloved."
Dierdre O'Farrell and I were sitting side by side, our backs to the door, so it was only as we turned that Herter could have recognized us. He had no scruple in showing that I was the last person he wished to meet. One look was enough for him! His pale face changed and aged since London flushed a dark and violent red. Backing out into the hall he banged the door.
"You pretend that everything you do, good or bad, is for your brother's sake, yet you let him risk his life a blind man! out here in the street with bombs and shrapnel dropping every instant!" It was Dierdre O'Farrell who spoke, and we glared into each other's eyes like two Kilkenny cats or a surprised Kilkenny cat and a spitfire Kilkenny kitten.
"But we're going to Soissons day after to-morrow!" said Father Beckett. "And there'll be a moon presently," added Dierdre. She had heard of the ruined convent at Chauny and was determined not to miss it. "Yes, there'll be a moon," reluctantly admitted Monsieur le Lieutenant. "Is there still another reason?" I tried to help him. "Well, yes, there is one, Mademoiselle," he blurted out.
He could never respect me, never love me in the old way but he might forgive, because of Dierdre herself and because of the great Plan. Hasn't my wickedness given them both to him? Writing all this to you has done me good, Padre. I see more clearly ahead. I shall decide before morning what to do. I feel I shall this time! And I think it a good idea to speak to Brian.
As she spoke, choking on the last words, the woman with white hair crossed the room swiftly, and caught the hand of her husband, which was stretched out as if groping for hers. He stumbled to his feet, and she stood defending him like a gentle creature of the woods at bay. Perhaps at no other moment of her life would Dierdre O'Farrell have been struck with such poignant repentance.
Oh, not the original character, but an extraordinary fellow who has earned that name in our neighbourhood since the war." "Was that what he called himself?" O'Farrell turned to Dierdre. I guessed that Puck's public revelations were vengeance upon her for unanswered questions. "He called himself nothing at all," the girl replied. "Ah," said the Préfet, "then he was the Wandering Jew!
Brian, puzzled, paused at the door, his hand on Sirius's head, Dierdre standing in front of them both like a ruffled sparrow. The French officer straightened up in his chair with an astonished look, but did not rise.
Molly'll be grateful to you for inventing such a plan for me. She'll want you to be the one to carry it out." No argument of his could convince the girl, however. They came back to the hotel at last, after a walk by the river, closer friends than before, but Dierdre depressed, if no longer sulky. She seemed in a strange, tense mood, as though there were more she wished to say if she dared.
Now I'm going to tell you about the incident which has made me almost love Dierdre O'Farrell a miracle, it would have seemed two weeks ago, when my best mental pet name for her was "little cat!" When I wrote last night, I mentioned that the room Mother Beckett has in this little hotel had been intended for the wife of a French officer coming out of hospital.
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