She was gathering quite a crowd in her newfound popularity, and the phenomenon was so apparent she could almost form her own harem of young boys. He allowed his voice to drip with sympathy. He sat in much the same attitude, and she stood just as she had stood when he told her she could not go to the Fadden Dance. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. She came to spend hours with the bastard children that the women brought, dressing and feeding the tiny ones, inventing games for the older ones. Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. For some seconds of voluminous thinking they looked at the ring between them, and neither spoke. Mr. ‘Not where we’re going. “I know.
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