She looked up in surprise when he asked her, then showed him the cover. “I can’t pronounce the name, Father.”

The Brothers Karamazov, he read. Good God!

She leafed through it thoughtfully. “I read it before, but they don’t change the books very often, and most of what they have is trash.”

“But that’s good, is it?”

“Well, yes, Father. It passes the time.” And she found her place again and settled herself into it.

He sipped his tea and watched her, afraid that she might say or do something else to estrange his vision of her still further. Someone – Mahon, probably – had lent him a book by Dostoevsky once, and he had read the first hundred pages or so, then given it back, saying it wasn’t good to disturb people with books like that. Yet, for seven years she had been reading while he breakfasted on Sunday morning, seven years she had sat here with her gray hair drawn neatly back, her chin on her hand, her eyes moving calmly behind her glasses. He had always thought of her as poor Mrs. D., the widow woman, and here she was, more complete than he.

She looked up suddenly at the sound of footsteps on the path. Knowing it was Father Cullen come for his weekly colloquy, she got up and put another cup and saucer on the table, then went back to her chair by the stove.

Father Cullen came in on a cold breeze. “Mornin’, Tom. Mornin’, ma’am.” He pulled off his coat and sat down at the table, blowing on his hands. “How goes it, Tom?”

“Fine.” Father Conroy moved his right hand to pour out the tea, then remembered and used the other hand.

Father Cullen looked at the bad hand, glanced up as if to speak, then looked away. “Hell of a night I had, up till all hours. Snow White had another litter.”

“That’s good.”

“I’ll keep one for you. A little fawn bitch, a beauty.”

“No, thanks.”

“Never too late, Tom. The sire has a touch of class – broke thirty seconds at Clonmel. Why don’t you call over, anyway?”

Yes, why don’t I? I might find out about Tomás, worm the address out of him. But would he give it? I wonder!

Father Conroy glanced at the woman. A pity she’s here! I could have sounded out Bat now, taken him off his guard. Maybe I should go and see him, though. Maybe he wouldn’t mind giving me the address, in which case I could write straightaway to Tomás...

Ah no, he thought, angry with himself. Bat promised the Canon to keep it to himself. It wouldn’t be fair to put him on the spot.

“No, Bat, you won’t tempt me,” he said, shaking his head.