There was no more furniture than that, with the exception of a writing-desk between the windows, on which stood a typewriter.

That jarred somehow on his sense of fitness, and he wondered at it.
He finished the last drop of coffee in the thick-rimmed white cup, and sat back in his chair.
* * * * * Already the burden was lighter, and he was astonished at the swiftness with which it had become so.

Life looked simpler here; the interior world was taken more for granted; it was not even a matter of debate.
There it was, imperious and objective, and through it glimmered to the eyes of the soul the old Figures that had become shrouded behind the rush of worldly circumstance.

The very shadow of God appeared to rest here; it was no longer impossible to realise that the saints watched and interceded, that Mary sat on her throne, that the white disc on the altar was Jesus Christ.

Percy was not yet at peace after all, he had been but an hour in Rome; and air, charged with never so much grace, could scarcely do more than it had done.