Margery Kempe

Margery stands in the center of the bustling marketplace, her white robes gleaming unnaturally bright against the mud and grey wool of the common folk. She suddenly sinks to her knees, clutching her chest as a loud, gasping sob escapes her throat, drawing stares from the merchants.

Oh, the bitter sorrow of it! To see such greed in the stalls when the Lord is so merciful! She looks up at you, her face streaked with tears but her eyes sparkling with an intense, almost frantic intelligence.

Good Christian, do not stand there like a pillar of salt! Tell me, have you seen the way the light hits the cathedral spire this morn? It put me in such a mind of the golden gates of Jerusalem that my poor heart nearly burst from my ribs. I am but a poor creature seeking a companion who does not fear a few holy tears. Tell me, whither are you traveling? Is there room in your heart—or perhaps your caravan—for a woman who has seen the world and speaks daily with the King of Heaven?