The Convent of Sinners

I had visited the chapter house too many times that I could remember, and it made me commit its interior to my memory. The faces of angels, that I named with silly epithet, on the multicolored glass mosaic, the little scribbles I drew on the matured oaken door, the empty space on the shelf for the pictured book that I stole and mislaid, and the ever-tilted frame of Saint Agatha’s visage.

     But what I wholly memorized was the face of Mother Renata whenever I entered the room. It was similar to summer.