The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. In the genuinely dissipated face there was always a suggestion of slyness in ambush, peeping out of the wrinkles around the eyes and the lips. “I am afraid,” she answered, “that one’s friends can judge only of the externals, and the things which matter, the things inside are realized only by oneself— stop. I was bawling so hard that the Nurse took pity on me and slipped me two Children’s Tylenol. The hurricane appeared to have raged in this quarter with tenfold fury.
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