The police
had to intervene. The interior, fern and orchid swathed, very dimly
lighted by rich purple stained glass and aristocratic dripping wax
candles instead of the more convenient electric imitations, was
murmurous with the wonderful throbbing notes of a great organ and with
the discreet low tones of the invited guests as they speculated about
the relative ages and fortunes of the bride and bridegroom. The
chancel was filled with a vested choir which, singing and carrying a
cross, advanced down the aisle to meet the bridal party. Molly, who
had not been in a church since her childhood, had needed to be coached
over and over again in the ins and outs of the complicated service.
Sylvia, seated several guests away from the aisle, saw little of the
procession as it went up into the chancel. She caught a glimpse of a
misty mass of white and, beside it, old Mr. Sommerville's profile,
very white and nervous and determined. She did not at that time see
the bridegroom at all. The ceremony, which took place far within the
chancel, was long and interspersed with music from the choir. Sylvia,
feeling very queer and callous, as though, under an anaesthetic, she
were watching with entire unconcern the amputation of one of her
limbs, fell to observing the people about her. The woman in front of
her leaned against the pew and brought her broad, well-fed back close
under Sylvia's eyes.
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