“I am the mother of a child that died but was never christened,” said Norah. “It was all through my own fault.”
“No,” said the girl, with a shudder. “I often thought of takin’ my own life.”
“Yes.”
“I took to drink and then threw the picture of the Blessed Virgin and a stoup of holy water into the fire.”
She paused.
“Ye’ve given up the life of the streets?” enquired the priest in a voice teeming with curiosity.
“I have,” answered Norah.
“Did ye like it?”
“No.” The answer was the echo of a whisper almost.