The intense, anonymous intimacy. The awful fact that a soul is about to be laid bare, that horror may be revealed. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. But she was merely suffering from scruples, an affliction of the religious that is just as tiresome as a rash, is a kind of mental rash in fact. You scratch and it only gets worse.
People go off to Africa to work in the missions because of scruples.
They catch real rashes there. I have doubts. He even stole a glance to his left, but she was no more than a shadow beyond the metal lattice. I'm sorry, Father. Of course, Father.