Then, almost as if it were a tedious duty, he harked back to Concha’s perversion: “Yes, it’s a bad business for you all about Miss Concha.”
“Life absorbs everything—in time,” said Teresa, half to herself.
“What do you mean exactly by that, Miss Lane?”
“Heresy, probably,” and she smiled.
“Well, what do you mean?”
“It’s difficult to explain ... but I feel a sort of transubstantiation always going on ... sin and mistakes and sorrows and joy slowly, inevitably, turned into the bread that is life, and it’s no use worrying and struggling and trying to prevent everything but fine flour from going in ... all’s grist that comes to the mill.”
He looked at her intently for a few seconds: “Don’t you believe in the teaching of the Church, Miss Lane?”
“Does it ... does it matter about believing?”
“Yes, it matters.”
“Well ... I haven’t quite made up my mind.”