“There is an excitement of the heart, teacher, as well as of the body. A tingling of the mind in the active presence of new ideas. A trembling of the soul.’’

Yes, she had felt all those. But that wasn’t it. “How about fear?”

“Fear? Ah, then you have come to me as a confessor.”

“I already have a confessor.”

He nodded. “The priest.”

“Yes.” She had told Father Dennen everything. She only wished Sam would confess to him, too.

“You tell him everything?” She pondered that. “Not everything.”

“Not everything,” he whispered. “Then I am the one who hears the things you cannot even confess to your priest.” He kissed her. She held her breath, wondering what to expect. His mouth had a slightly metallic taste, like the taste of well water from a tin cup. It was not unpleasant.

He drew back. “I am forcing nothing,” he warned her. “You came to me.”

She could not bring herself to speak. He was right and he was also wrong—at this instant, she was powerless to do anything but let the world happen to her. She was under his spell.

He pulled her over backward in the chair. She felt herself falling and cried out, weakly.

“I will not let you fall,” he said gently. “You shall not even stub your toe.” The odd remark sounded vaguely scriptural to her. He eased her back and then rolled her off the fallen chair and onto the brown rug. He was surprisingly heavy on top of her.

She waited for the passion to flood into her, but nothing happened. She was not even really afraid, did not even feel guilty. She watched herself as if she were a detached observer peeking in the window: half-undressed now, she lay on her back, arms flung limply over her head, on a dirty brown carpet in a cell-like room in a tawdry boardinghouse in the Negro section of a city she had come to loathe.

The image astonished her. Then her vision filled with his blue eyes, the sweat gleaming along his razor-sharp moustache. She was disappointed—she had expected a mad loss of control, a sudden violent surge of guilty emotions, a heart-pounding tumult of caresses. Meanwhile, he was peeling off her blouse.

“Wait,” she said.

He must have heard the sadness in her voice. She wasn’t struggling, just politely asking.

He got off her. “So, you can’t make up your mind.” He wasn’t even breathing hard. “I am forcing nothing. Just go home and forget about this.”

As he stood over her, shirtless, she saw that something was wrong with the skin of his stomach and chest. Slowly, she got to her feet, feeling the breeze fretting through the open window. “Your stomach, those marks.”

“What?” He stood confused, one hand holding his shirt, the other touching a pink scar on his stomach. There were more scars, livid pink slashes.