She herself had liked to confess, particularly when she was fourteen and fifteen, and to listen to the priest's voice as he admonished her with, "Now, my dear child." A particularly old priest, a French father, who came to hear their confessions at school, interested her as being kind and sweet.

His forgiveness and blessing seemed sincere--better than her prayers, which she went through perfunctorily.

And then there was a young priest at St.Timothy's, Father David, hale and rosy, with a curl of black hair over his forehead, and an almost jaunty way of wearing his priestly hat, who came down the aisle Sundays sprinkling holy water with a definite, distinguished sweep of the hand, who took her fancy.
He heard confessions and now and then she liked to whisper her strange thoughts to him while she actually speculated on what he might privately be thinking.

She could not, if she tried, associate him with any divine authority.

He was too young, too human.