Lucy felt a finger tap her on the bra strap as she observed Michelle chatting with yet another passing group of people. Shari squealed, clutching her towel around her. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. Danger, in the form he apprehended, was lurking outside: nor was he destined to enjoy long repose. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. “My mind is full of confused stuff,” he said at length.
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