that no-good girl, and you will think more about what is worthwhile in life, instead of dreaming about pointless things."
However, there was an accent of anguish in her words.
In a fit of anger he felt growing inside and that he couldn't imagine unleashing, Martyn Trischer threw on the ground the first objects he found on the counter and faced the old woman bluntly: "I'm tired of being told what to do!" he snarled at her "the fact that you have sinned yourself, of your own will, does not give you the right to give me orders!"
Mrs. Archer was a little frightened: "Martyn ..." she tried to say.
But the young man pressed her with an evil look: "Enough! Don't say anything. Shut up as you've always done until now. And tell me where I can find her."
Martyn Trischer met Elizabeth near the post office.
The two were somewhat embarrassed at first, soon enough, though, they discovered that there was still intimacy between them.
Their eyes were full of worry, but they still enjoyed the pleasure of being in front of each other. After they had made love at her house last time, their life seemed to have taken the same turn as before: but, perhaps for somewhat different reasons, both were aware that this was not true at all.
In the torment of seeing each other again without being able to pretend that the next time would be without consequences, they did not know what decision to make, or rather, what decision to propose to each other.
Perhaps they both knew that the only possible option was never to see each other again.
Meanwhile, in the shade of a porch on that sunny afternoon, a man was hearing a jumble of incomprehensible words whispering in his head.
He felt a sense of dizziness as if he was about to lose consciousness.
He could hear the gnashing of teeth and grating of nails.
Before his eyes, the outlines faded into indistinct lines.
And the feeling of someone leaning heavily on his shoulders increased the fatigue of his conscience.
He was leaning against a pillar; it was only a few meters away. The eyes fixed on the scene of the two youngs speaking while looking at each other.
The man who was hurting his hands, clenching them into fists until his nails imprinted in the flesh, was the Reverend Johnathan Abblepot.
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