"Oh! I will give my heart to God," I said. "YOU do not want it."
I will not swear, reader, that there was not something of repressed
sarcasm both in the tone in which I uttered this sentence, and in
the feeling that accompanied it. I had silently feared St. John
till now, because I had not understood him. He had held me in
awe, because he had held me in doubt. How much of him was saint,
how much mortal, I could not heretofore tell: but revelations
were being made in this conference: the analysis of his nature was
proceeding before my eyes. I saw his fallibilities: I comprehended
them. I understood that, sitting there where I did, on the bank
of heath, and with that handsome form before me, I sat at the feet
of a man, caring as I. The veil fell from his hardness and despotism.
Having felt in him the presence of these qualities, I felt his
imperfection and took courage. I was with an equal -- one with
whom I might argue -- one whom, if I saw good, I might resist.
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