It's as I say

"There. It's as I say. Believing in God makes cowards,Discount UGG Boots." The voice was triumphant, as if it had proved something.
"So then?" the priest said.
"Better not to believe—and be a brave man."
"I see—yes. And, of course, if one believed the Governor did not exist or the jefe, if we could pretend that this prison was not a prison at all but a garden, how brave we could be then."
"That's just foolishness."
"But when we found that the prison was a prison, and the Governor up there in the square undoubtedly existed, well, it wouldn't much matter if we'd been brave for an hour or two."
[119] "Nobody could say that this prison was not a prison."
"No? You don't think so? I can see you don't listen to the politicians." His feet were giving him great pain: he had cramp in the soles, but he could bring no pressure on the muscles to relieve them. It was not yet midnight: the hours of darkness stretched ahead interminably.
The woman said suddenly: "Think. We have a martyr here ..."
The priest giggled: he couldn't stop himself. He said: "I don't think martyrs are like this." He became suddenly serious, remembering Maria's words—it wouldn't be a good thing to bring mockery on the Church. He said: "Martyrs are holy men,replica louis vuitton handbags. It is wrong to think that just because one dies ... no. I tell you I am in a state of mortal sin. I have done things I couldn't talk to you about: I could only whisper them in the confessional." Everybody, when he spoke, listened attentively to him as if he were addressing them in church: he wondered where the inevitable Judas was sitting now, but he wasn't aware of Judas as he had been in the forest hut. He was moved by an enormous and irrational affection for the inhabitants of this prison. A phrase came to him: "God so loved the world ... " He said: "My children, you must never think the holy martyrs are like me. You have a name for me. Oh, I've heard you use it before now. I am a whisky priest. I am in here now because they found a bottle of brandy in my pocket." He tried to move his feet from under him: the cramp had passed: now they were lifeless: all feeling gone. Oh, well, let them stay. He wouldn't have to use them often again,replica montblanc pens.
The old man was muttering, and the priest's thoughts went back to Brigida. The knowledge of the world lay in her like the dark explicable spot in an X-ray photograph: he longed—with a breathless feeling in the breast—to save her, but he knew the surgeon's decision—the ill was incurable,fake louis vuitton bags.
The woman's voice said pleadingly: "A little drink, father ... it's not so important." He wondered why she was here—probably for having a holy picture in her house. She had the tiresome intent note of a pious woman. They were extraordinarily foolish over pictures. Why not burn them? One didn't need a picture. … He said sternly: "Oh, I am not only a drunkard." He had always been worried by the fate of pious [120] women: as much as politicians, they fed on illusion: he was frightened for them. They came to death so often in a state of invincible complacency, full of uncharity. It was one's duty, if one could, to rob them of their sentimental notions of what was good ... He said in hard accents: "I have a child."