They seemed to pierce through and
touch some sleeping thing in himself which stirred and answered: "Yes,
yes, that's true--that's true."
The pressure on his shoulders increased a little.
"But you're not afraid of anything, are you, Stonehouse?"
"No--no, sir. I don't think so--not really----"
"I don't think you are, either. I liked the way you stood up to that
poor faggot of hereditary superstitions and prejudices who was trying
to frighten you into being as big a humbug as himself. He'll never get
over it. I daresay he'll make things very unpleasant for you in his
charming Christian way. How old are you, Stonehouse?"
"Ten--nearly, sir."
"You're big and precocious for your age. You'll get the better of him.
But if you'd been brought up with other children you'd have whined and
cringed--'Yes, sir,' 'No, sir'--and been a beastly canting hypocrite
all your life. You're wonderfully lucky if you only knew it,
Stonehouse. You're nearly ten, and you can't read and you don't say
your prayers and your catechism and you know nothing about God
Almighty. You've a sporting chance of becoming a man----"
Robert stumbled over his own feet. A deeper, almost overpowering,
tiredness had come over him. And yet he was fascinated. He had to try
to understand.
"Isn't there--I mean--isn't there anyone like God?"
Mr. Ricardo stopped short. He made a strange, wild gesture. Standing
there in the half-darkness he was more than ever like some poor hobbled
bird trying desperately, furiously to beat its way back to freedom.
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