Sister Mary
Barbara, SSM, paid the cabby and ran from the parking apron up the
stairs to the Motherhouse, fearful that she would be late. Behind her,
the cab waited as agreed, a faint tick-tick-tick warning of engine
problems soon to come. He ought to have that looked at, Sr. Barbara
thought irrelevantly. Her rosary, dangling at her left side, flapped
comically and she wondered what a sight she must present to the cabby.
Black habit, white wimple enclosing forehead, ears, neck – only her face
peeked out, small and fine, almost a child’s face. It was a legend
among the children that the knotted cincture was used to whip the unruly
into shape.
But she must not think of the children.
But she must not think of the children.
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