“Should be a good turnout, Father. With the snow.”
Father Loris squinted up through the window at the swirling flakes. A gust of wind rattled the glass. “Better add more water to the soup, then.”
Sister Claire placed the bucket in the sink and turned the tap. “What I mean,” she shouted over the thundering water, “is that the Lord may provide more ears to hear the Word. You may want to change things up a little.”
Her back was turned so she could not see his face, the expression of haughty disdain. He waited for her to turn around.