Her nerves were less affected than her spirits. She had hours of
such black depression that only the faint glimmering star of religion
kept her from suicide. She had longer seasons for thought on Masters
and his ruin--and of the hours they had spent together. One night she
went out to Dolores and sat in the dark little church until dawn. She
had nothing of the saint in her and felt no impulse to emulate Concha
Arguello, who had become the first nun in California; moreover,
Razanov had died an honorable death through no fault of his or his
Concha's. She and Langdon Masters were lost souls and must expiate
their sins in the eyes of the world that heaped on their heads its
pitiless scorn.
Madeleine threw off her hat and dropped into the armchair, oblivious
of its bumps. She began to cry quietly with none of her former
hysteria. Holt was nearer to Masters than any one she knew, and she
was grateful that he had not seen her in her hours of supreme
degradation. If he ever saw Masters again he would tell him of her
downfall, of course--and the reason for it; but at least he could
paint no horrible concrete picture. For the first time she felt
thankful that she had not sunk lower; been compelled, indeed, against
her will, to retrace her steps. She even regretted the hideous
episode of the ferry boat, although she had welcomed the exposure at
the time.
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