Спрут: Каліфорнійська історія

           Beforethechancelrailofthealtar,underthesanctuarylamp,Vanameesankuponhisknees,hisarmsfoldedupontherail,hisheadboweddownuponthem.Heprayed,withwhatwordshecouldnotsayforwhathedidnotunderstand—forhelp,merely,forrelief,foranAnswertohiscry.

           Itwasuponthat,atlength,thathisdisorderedmindconcentrateditself,anAnswer—hedemanded,heimploredanAnswer.NotavaguevisitationofGrace,notaformlesssenseofPeace;butanAnswer,somethingreal,eveniftherealitywerefancied,avoiceoutofthenight,respondingtohis,ahandinthedarkclaspinghisgropingfingers,abreath,human,warm,fragrant,familiar,likeasoft,sweetcaressonhisshrunkencheeks.Alonethereinthedimhalf-lightofthedecayingMission,withitscrumblingplaster,itsnaivecrudityofornamentandpicture,hewrestledfiercelywithhisdesires—words,fragmentsofsentences,inarticulate,incoherent,wrenchedfromhistight-shutteeth.

           ButtheAnswerwasnotinthechurch.Abovehim,overthehighaltar,theVirgininaglory,withdowncasteyesandfoldedhands,grewvagueandindistinctintheshadow,thecoloursfading,tarnishedbycenturiesofincensesmoke.TheChristinagonyontheCrosswasbutalamentablevisionoftormentedanatomy,greyflesh,spottedwithcrimson.TheSt.