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Updated: June 17, 2025
They had ended up in the chapel of Sir Thomas More. He, too, had "given up things," including his head. Though Mary Stopperton, siding with Father Morris, was convinced he had now got it back, and that with the remainder of his bones it rested in the tomb before them.
She started, on seeing Joan, and seemed about to retreat. "Oh, please don't go," cried Joan. "Mrs. Stopperton has just gone round to the doctor's. She won't be long. I'm a friend of hers." The girl took stock of her and, apparently reassured, closed the door behind her. "What's he like to-night?" she asked, with a jerk of her head in the direction of the next room.
Mary Stopperton showed her into a seat and evidently remembered her. "I want to see you afterwards," she whispered; and Mary Stopperton had smiled and nodded. The service, with its need for being continually upon the move, bored her; she was not in the mood for it. And the sermon, preached by a young curate who had not yet got over his Oxford drawl, was uninteresting.
God would make a wind of reason to pass over the earth. He would not smite again his people. "I wish poor dear Sam could have been kept out of it," said Flossie. She wiped her eyes and finished her tea. Joan had arranged to leave on the Monday. She ran down to see Mary Stopperton on the Saturday afternoon. Mr.
Not until they were crossing the aisle, where the clearer light streamed in through the open doors, did Joan see that she was very old and feeble, with about her figure that curious patient droop that comes to the work-worn. She proved to be most interesting and full of helpful information. Mary Stopperton was her name.
"Yes, dear, and of course that can happen too," agreed the little old lady. "Did he, Carlyle, ever come to this church?" asked Joan. Mary Stopperton was afraid he never had, in spite of its being so near. "And yet he was a dear good Christian in his way," Mary Stopperton felt sure. "How do you mean 'in his way'?" demanded Joan.
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