I blurt, my mouth crumbly with homemade bread. You learn to talk like that at Nun School. Even Anglican Nun School, I guess. Or Episcopalian, for all you Americans. So here I am A bell signals the end of dinner.
Chairs scrape across the floor.
Only my plate isn't empty. Assuming I'd break one of Benedict's rules by wasting food, I furtively shove a forlorn slice of Swiss cheese into my pocket and follow the others out the door-here just an hour before me, and already suave veterans. Saints Rose of Lima or Maria Goretti wouldn't last long around here. Come to think of it, they didn't last long in the first place. I can't sing a note, and certainly can't afford the apparently prerequisite elocution lessons.