H. G. Wells,
The Soul of a Bishop
“ And here was the familiar palace at Princhester, and in an armchair in his bed-room sat Bishop Scrope insensible and motionless, in a trance in which he was dreaming of the coming of God. “I see my futility. I see my vanity. But what am I to do?” he said, turning to the darkness that now wrapped about the Angel again, fold upon fold. “The implications of yesterday bind me for the morrow. This is my world. This is what I am and what I am in. How can I save myself? How can I turn from these habits and customs and obligations to the service of the one true God? ”
