“You say that you love your men,” she says, swinging the pendulum, her voice smooth, steady, mellifluous.
“Yes,” he says, “more than anything in the world. Even New Salem.”
“I see. Well, that’s natural enough, given your position. But you have loved before, have you not?”
He freezes—resisting the question, resisting the spell, but nonetheless sees her: Jadis—as if it were yesterday, as if they’d never parted.
“Yes, Sister Sula.”
“And was it the same—a brotherly love, a patriarchal one?”
“No.”
“What was it, then?”
“It—it was a romantic love. An affair of the heart. But ... I do not wish to speak of—”
“Oh, but you must,” she urges, “you must! It is imperative to your treatment. Who was she, Patrobus? More importantly, when was she? Surely it was before—”
“The Pestilence, yes.” He s
