’ She saw the weapon wrenched from Emile’s hand and he dropped to the bench of the pew and sat there, grasping helplessly at the welling blood on his arm. “I am a fool,” he said. But she must stop him getting away. I must!” She threw open the door and pointed to it. She told me the tale the other night, and I've only elaborated it. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. It’s not a bit of good pretending there’s any Higher Truth or wonderful principle in this business. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. She felt her forehead repeatedly break out in a light sweat.
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