—Anything else, my child?
There was no help. He murmured:
—I... committed sins of impurity, father.
The priest did not turn his head.
—With yourself, my child?
—And... with others.
—With women, my child?
—Yes, father.
—Were they married women, my child?
He did not know. His sins trickled from his lips,one by one, trickled in shameful drops from his soul,festering and oozing like a sore, a squalid stream of vice. The last sins oozed forth, sluggish, filthy. There was no more to tell. He bowed his head, overcome.