God had never answered any of her prayers. Blueskin and the Minters were dragging Wood to the pump. Despite her busy work schedule, Sheila had always been a social person, a talker, a joiner of neighborhood groups, a town council member, a PTA worker, and a thrower of neighborhood coffee klatches. The sound of their strident voices floated upwards, the high nasal note of the predominant Americans, the shrill laughter of girls quick to appreciate the wit of such of their male companions as thought it worth while to be amusing. All human food tasted equally dead and loathsome to her, whether it was prime steak or cheap hamburger. She saw her discarded nun’s habit still on the floor and scooped it up. As far as I recollect, there were two. She has even found them accommodation in the house where she is putting up herself.
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