Chapter 25
There is a sacredness in tears.
They are not the mark of weakness, but of power.
They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues.
They are messengers of overwhelming grief...
And unspeakable love.
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—Washington Irving
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GITA
Gita slipped out of the alley between the houses.
"Oh, gods! Oh, gods!"
She knocked into a surprised old woman carrying a net full of waterfowl. The ducks flew through the street, quacking as they escaped. Villagers stared as she clutched her unraveled shawl-dress to cover her nakedness.
She ran through an open gate and sank behind a pile of faggots. Great sobs wracked her body as she rubbed between her legs.
"No, no, no, nooooo!"
She rubbed the place the priest's c**k had rammed against her and slid her fingers between the folds of her l
