Зима тревоги нашей

           Theywalkedaway,carryingtheirpaperbags,eachonetoaseparateprivateworld.

           "Didyouenjoytheservice,mydarling?"

           "Oh,yes!Ialwaysdo.Butyou—sometimesIwonderifyoubelieve—no,Imeanit.Well,yourjokes—sometimes—"

           "Pullupyourchair,mydimpsydarling."

           "Ihavetogetlunchon."

           "Buggerlunch."

           "That’swhatImean.Yourjokes."

           "Lunchisnotsacred.Ifitwerewarmer,Icouldcarryyoutoarowboatandwewouldgooutpastthebreakwaterandfishforporgies."

           "We’regoingtotheBakers’.Doyouknowwhetheryoubelieveinthechurchornot,Ethan?Whydoyoucallmesillynames?Youhardlyeverusemyname."

           "Toavoidbeingrepetitiousandtiresome,butinmyheartyournameringslikeabell.DoIbelieve?Whataquestion!DoIliftouteachshiningphrasefromtheNicenecreed,loadedlikeashotgunshell,andinspectit?No.Itisn’tnecessary.It’sasingularthing,Mary.Ifmymindandsoulandbodywereasdryoffaithasanavybean,thewords,‘TheLordismyShepherd,Ishallnotwant.Hemakethmetoliedowningreenpastures,’wouldstillmakemystomachturnoverandputaflutterinmychestandlightafireinmybrain."

           "Idon’tunderstand."

           "Goodgirl.NeitherdoI.Let’ssaythatwhenIwasalittlebaby,andallmybonessoftandmalleable,IwasputinasmallEpiscopalcruciformboxandsotookmyshape.