He fell to the narrative now afresh, with all the interest of a
little child. He began at the beginning, and read on almost
greedily, understanding for the first time the full meaning of the
story. He came to the end; the awful End. And there were the
haunting words of pleading.
He shut the book, and thought deeply.
All night long, the Archangel combated with the Demon.
All night long, others watched by the bed of Death. John Barton had
revived to fitful intelligence. He spoke at times with even
something of his former energy; and in the racy Lancashire dialect
he had always used when speaking freely.
"You see I've so often been hankering after the right way; and it's
a hard one for a poor man to find. At least it's been so to me. No
one learned me, and no one telled me. When I was a little chap they
taught me to read, and then they never gave no books; only I heard
say the Bible was a good book. So when I grew thoughtful, and
puzzled, I took to it. But you'd never believe black was black, or
night was night, when you saw all about you acting as if black was
white, and night was day.
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