It was a perfect night for a train. The occasional whistle told Louis of all the farewells he had ever known.
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Not until he stood at the altar did he achieve a sense of being hale and furnished. It was strange, he thought, that a man would find his surest current in the spot where he felt least worthy.
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Open in his hand was a solid gift of the Church - or, as he thought of it at this moment, a gift from God to the Church, for a distilled grammar of faith and practice. The Book of Common Prayer its treasure was great and always ready. He loved the taste of the phrases in his mouth.
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When the whistle blew and the call stretched thin across the night, one had to believe that any journey could be sweet to the soul.
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