During the miserable weeks when she had virtually made up her mind not to speak, that remembrance had worked within her like leaven, unconsciously softening her towards her husband, drawing her towards compassion on Michael.
Now that she did speak again she did not reproach them.

She who had blamed them both so bitterly a few short weeks ago blamed them no longer.

Nor did she say anything about the culpable silence of the real murderer.

That mysterious criminal, that scapegoat who had so far aroused her bitterest animosity had ceased to darken her mind.
Fay had passed unconsciously far beyond the limitations of Magdalen's anxious prayer on her behalf.

The love of Andrea and Michael, tardily seen, only partially realised, had helped her at last.
The Bishop listened and listened, a little bent forward, his eyes on the floor, his chin in his hand.