Paul, his face swollen and bruised from the night"s confrontation, strode into the vicarage sitting room. He carried a letter, which he placed on the coffee table with a gesture of finality. Letters, he felt, were absolute and incontrovertible, compared with the transient superficiality of emails. He would ask Beryl to post it. Job done.
Sarah walked in, still in her robe. She went to the window and stared out at the garden, her features transformed by a secret smile.
“Shouldn"t you be dressed? It"s the middle of the morning.” Paul was horrified to realise that he was starting to despise her.
She turned from the window with a mocking glance. “Dressed? For what occasion? Is the bishop visiting?”
“The bishop will never come here while I"m the vicar,” he replied emphatically.
She seemed
