Chapter 3
The massive bell that was mounted in the battlement-like tower of St. Stephen's Cathedral clanged out its solemn and ponderous message of accusation against penitent Catholics to come to church and confess their sins and be forgiven. Close to the downtown area, it had to compete with the busy sounds of morning traffic, seeking the attention of men more concerned about laying up treasures on earth than being reconciled to the God of Heaven. But from the front room on the seventh floor of the Roosevelt Hotel, across the street from St. Stephen's, where I stood looking out the window, it was impossible to shut out the sound. It had interrupted the reading aloud I had been doing at Corrine's request as she reclined on the bed behind me, munching on the carry-out breakfast I had brought for her. "CLANG-g-g!"
The volume and resonance of the sound caused the very window in front of me to rattle from the vibrations. Ten blocks to the west, busy with the weekly washing, Florence probably could not hear the sound above the combined noise emanating from the washing machine and the television set. Even if she had heard, I mused, it probably would not have interrupted her grim devotion to duty.
"Aren't you going to read anymore, sweetheart?" Corrine's voice asked plaintively from behind me. In my right hand I held a book which I had given to Corrine as a gift several months before and from which I had been reading aloud before the sound of the cathedral bell across the street had begun to pour into the room. It contained an edited collection of quotations, poems, and excerpts that had been written on the subject of love between man and woman. As I had read fragments of what a particular woman's love had meant to such great men as Victor Hugo, Alexander Hamilton, Beethoven, and even Napoleon Bonaparte, I had been impressed anew with what a powerful influence a woman's love could be in the life of a man great or obscure.
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