—People's goodness. People's kindness. The sweet, beautiful things they did for each other. The brave, noble things, the things Mark did: filthy rags.
This—this religion of theirs—was filthy; ugly, like the shiny black covers of their Bibles where their fingers left a grey, greasy smear. Filthy and frightful; like funerals. You might as well be buried alive, five coffins deep in a pit of yellow clay.
Mamma couldn't really believe it. You would have to tell her it wasn't true. Not telling her meant that you didn't think she cared about the truth. You insulted her if you supposed she didn't care. Mark would say you insulted her. Even if it hurt her a bit at first, you insulted her if you thought she couldn't bear it. And afterwards she would be happy, because she would be free.
"It's no use, Mamma. I shan't ever want to be confirmed."
"Want—want—want! You ought to want, then. You say you believe the
Christian Faith—"
Now—now. A clean quick cut. No jagged ends hanging.
"That's it. I don't believe a single word of it."
She couldn't look at her mother. She didn't want to see her cry.
"You've found that out, have you? You've been mighty quick about it."
"I found it out ages ago. But I didn't mean to tell you."