A minute later a sister appears. In her black and white dress she looks like a beautiful tea-cosy. “Shut the door, will you, sister?” says someone.
“We are saying prayers, that is why the door is open,” she responds.
“But we want to go on sleeping———”
“Prayer is better than sleep,” she stands there and smiles innocently. “And it is seven o’clock already.”
Albert groans again. “Shut the door,” I snort.
She is quite disconcerted. Apparently she cannot understand. “But we are saying prayers for you too.”
“Shut the door, anyway.”
She disappears, leaving the door open. The intoning of the Litany proceeds.
I feel savage, and say: “I’m going to count up to three. If it doesn’t stop before then I’ll let something fly.”
“Me, too,” says another.
I count up to five. Then I take hold of a bottle, aim, and heave it through the door into the corridor. It smashes into a thousand pieces. The praying stops. A swarm of sisters appear and reproach us in concert.
“Shut the door!” we yell.
They withdraw. The little one who came first is
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