loose purplish mouth. She pressed against him. He pushed her away.
"I'd better go now," he said, and turned. With catlike steps she was at the dressing table, opening the drawer. She seized a small shining revolver.
He rose high into the air as if to leap upon her. He pinned her against the bed, pushed her back upon it, unwound her fingers from the weapon. With nails needle-sharp, she clawed at him. As they struggled, her lips touched his cheek. Her teeth sank into his flesh; then, as the pain ceased, she kissed him.
"Nita," he whispered, as the kiss ended, "I'd much rather be dead than …"
To Father Refugio Castillo, Ken came one noonday that spring. The old priest sat in his bibliotéca, where his books were ranged in tiers on shelves.
"I am very proud of myself," Father Refugio said. "In all my years I have never been so proud. Fra Junipero Serra could not have made a greater conquest of the heathen than I have of you."
"It isn't a matter of the church," Ken said. "I'm afraid and I thought you'd reassure me."
"This shall be our confessional," replied the priest. The little room was in brown shadow. A narrow window high in the wall admitted an oblique light. "Our secular confessional, as it were," he continued.
Ken related how he had visited the church on Easter morning. He told how he had come to Tia Juana; he frankly admitted to the priest that Anita held him by chains he could not break.
