God concerned Himself with souls, not bodies; certainly not faces. In the high school everything female depended upon being pretty or not-pretty, the universe divided along those blunt Manichean lines, but God, being pure spirit, scorned to take notice of such trivial things. It could not matter to Him that Marya Knauer was too tall for her age, too long-waisted and angular; that her chest was flat; that her mouth reflected discontent when she believed herself in a neutral mood; that her cheekbones were too prominent, and her brows thick and dark and straight—indeed, they grew across the bridge of her nose and might almost have formed one single censorious brow if, in rage and self-loathing, she didn’t pluck them every few weeks. (Marya vowed not to be the kind of idiotic girl who worries constantly over her appearance—slipping into the lavatory between classes, for instance, to peer anxiously at her mirrored reflection. Nor would she turn into the kind of woman, like her aunt Wilma, who visibly warmed when paid a compliment; or, again like Wilma, who complained aloud about getting older.)

In other respects, however, the fact that God saw, or actually dwelled, within might bring with it certain complications. For when Marya successfully curbed her natural instinct to be impatient, or sarcastic, or frankly vicious—there was this side to her, she couldn’t help it, being confirmed in the Catholic faith hadn’t worked a miracle—did that mean that God read her instinct as her, and wasn’t deceived by her behavior? Did that mean that God could not be deceived in any way, that one stood naked before Him, abject and trembling? I have sinned in thought, word, and deed, Marya whispered in the confessional, hiding her burning face in her hands; deeds and words being difficult enough to monitor, thoughts all but impossible. (She couldn’t control her thoughts, Marya told Father Shearing not long after her confirmation at St. Anne’s. She was half sobbing, squirming in shame and misery. “I try but I can’t. I can’t. Sometimes I think I might be going crazy,” she said. To her relief Father Shearing did not make one of his condescending witticisms—he was often condescending about what constitutes “sin” for most Catholics—but said instead in a grave voice that she must try harder. And yet harder. “Such discipline is a matter of will,” he told her. “And the will itself can be strengthened through exercise. Don’t despair.”)