—Lord.
—I am not worthy of Your blessings.
—But if, in Your infinite mercy, You could grant us a fine harvest of well-proportioned turnips…
—…I promise I won’t bring it up again.
(Pause.)
—At least until Advent.
And Mother Superior Sister Patience, watching them from a distance:
—Lord.
—Don’t pay them too much attention.
—You know they’re good souls.
—But please… use a little discretion.
