Assumption
Her man would have a velvet weskit and the laughingest eyes. He'd steal a lock from her hair, because it was so pretty.
A child's dream. He'd be gentle and honest and do work among the poor. On Sundays they'd walk to church, her arm in his arm.
Vanity! Who could love her? Only the Lord ever might; only He could save her from the devil that tempted her woman-weak heart.
She was His bride. No other's.
Sister Ambrose is about to cut her hair. In he walks, throwing the doors aside: the one in velvet with the laughing eyes.