"'I 'm not exactly religious,' I say. 'I 'm like every one, I guess.'
"'You believe in God, McCarthy?'
"Nobody likes to talk much about things of that kind. You think about them, but you don't say them. And particularly you don't talk about them to a prisoner who 's up for murder, unless you 're one of those Holy Willie boys.
"'Who does n't?' I spars.
"'You believe—' her voice is serious—'that God takes care of you on this island?'
"That's what they say.'
"'Do you believe, McCarthy, that He knows me, takes care of me, cares for me?'
"I say nothing—because I can't see it. She 's too far out of the pale. I 'd like to tell her 'yes.' But I can't.
"'You don't believe, then, McCarthy—' her voice is just a husky whisper—'that there is any caring for me, anywhere.'
"'Oh, what's the use of bothering about that?'