"Lots."
"To you?"
"No. I don't let 'em."
"Why not? I should think it would be interesting."
"It's only a trick to gratify the senses through recollection," said the blunt physician. "Reflected lechery."
"You know too much, Bob. Then you won't be my father confessor?"
"I doubt if you could tell me much," he said slowly.
A smile, unabashed and mischievous, played upon her lips. "That's an ambiguous sort of answer. Sometimes I suspect that very little gets past you."
"I'm trained to observation," he remarked.
"And to silence. So you're safe. I think it would do me good to confess to you." She grew still and pensive. "Bob, if I'd been a Roman Catholic do you suppose I'd have been—different?"