China oil paintings

'Oh! I will give my heart to God,' I said. 'You do not want it.'
I will not swear, reader, that there was not something of repressed
sarcasm both in the tone in which I uttered this sentence, and in
the feeling that accompanied it. I had silently feared St. John till
now, because I had not understood him. He had held me in awe,
because he had held me in doubt. How much of him was saint, how much
mortal, I could not heretofore tell: but revelations were being made
in this conference: the analysis of his nature was proceeding before
my eyes. I saw his fallibilities: I comprehended them. I understood
that, sitting there where I did, on the bank of heath, and with that
handsome form before me, I sat at the feet of a man, erring as I.
The veil fell from his hardness and despotism. Having felt in him
the presence of these qualities, I felt his imperfection and took
courage. I was with an equal- one with whom I might argue- one whom,
if I saw good, I might resist.
He was silent after I had uttered the last sentence, and I
presently risked an upward glance at his countenance. His eye, bent on
me, expressed at once stern surprise and keen inquiry. 'Is she