It was not only that her father had said all sorts of inconsistent and unreasonable things, but that by some incomprehensible infection she herself had replied in the same vein. Lots of us are like that. The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful.
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