"Your first love, my dear Reggie Turner, as I well recall, was literature. Before you decided to become a priest, you were all for being a writer. Well, maybe that is just the way to work your problem out. First by putting down on paper exactly what it is. Surely you must recognize that a release from your vows is a very serious matter." "Even if I'm not fit to be a priest?" "How can we be sure of that? How old are you? Twenty-nine? Thirty? You have years to reflect, to repent, even to reform. Whatever may be needed." I stared gloomily at the window behind his desk through which, even closed, we could hear the rumble of Madison Avenue, almost on our level. The Archbishop's bland round face, surmounting his round tight little body in immaculate black, was, as always, uncannily redeemed from the flesh and the world with which it seemed so linked by the spiritual quality of the small tan eyes he kept steadily fixed on his interlocutor and the set half-smile that mightn't have been a smile at all.
