Her eyes dwelt for a moment on the bruise on his cheek-bone.
"I want to see the priest, please," said Frank.
"You can't see him." "I am very sorry," said Frank, "but I must see him." "Coming here begging!" exclaimed the woman bitterly.

"I'd be ashamed! Be off with you!" Frank's dignity asserted itself a little.
"Don't speak to me in that tone, please.

I am a Catholic, and I wish to see the priest." The woman snorted; but before she could speak there came the sound of an opening door and a quick step on the linoleum of the little dark passage.
"What's all this ?" said a voice, as the woman stepped back.
He was a big, florid young man, with yellow hair, flushed as if with sleep; his eyes were bright and tired-looking, and his collar was plainly unbuttoned at the back.

Also, his cassock was unfastened at the throat and he bore a large red handkerchief in his hand.

Obviously this had just been over his face.
Now, I do not blame this priest in the slightest.