What does it matter? It is here, and it is here to stay. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. Racing, he reached it perhaps a moment or two later. The priest normally assigned the duty in the Iovelli family had fled days before from the chapel.
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