"That means you'll never let me off. If I don't do it now I'll have to do it next year, or the next?" "You may feel more seriously about it next year. Or next week," her mother said. "Meanwhile you'll learn the Thirty-Nine Articles. Read them through first." "--'Nine. Of Original or Birth-sin. Original Sin ... is the fault and corruption of the Nature of every man ... whereby man is far gone from original righteousness and is of his own nature inclined to evil, so that the flesh lusteth always contrary to the spirit; and therefore in every person born into this world it deserveth God's wrath and damnation.'" "Don't look like that," her mother said, "as if your wits were wool-gathering." "Wool?" She could see herself smiling at her mother, disagreeably. Wool-gathering. Gathering wool. The room was full of wool; wool flying about; hanging in the air and choking you. Clogging your mind. Old grey wool out of pew cushions that people had sat on for centuries, full of dirt. Wool, spun out, wound round you, woven in a net. You were tangled and strangled in a net of unclean wool. They caught you in it when you were a baby a month old. Mamma, Papa and Uncle Victor. You would have to cut and tug and kick and fight your way out. They were caught in it themselves, they couldn't get out. They didn't want to get out. The wool stopped their minds working. They hated it when their minds worked, when anybody's mind worked. Aunt Lavvy's--yours. "'Thirteen. Of Works before Justification. Works done before the grace of Christ, and the Inspiration of His Spirit, are not pleasant to God, forasmuch as they spring not of faith in Jesus Christ...: yea, rather, for that they are not done as God hath willed and commanded them to be done, we doubt not but they have the nature of sin.'" "Do you really believe that, Mamma?" "Of course I believe it. All our righteousness is filthy rags." --People's goodness. People's kindness. The sweet, beautiful things they did for each other. The brave, noble things, the things Mark did: filthy rags. _This_--this religion of theirs--was filthy; ugly, like the shiny black covers of their Bibles where their fingers left a grey, greasy smear. Filthy and frightful; like funerals. You might as well be buried alive, five coffins deep in a pit of yellow clay. Mamma couldn't really believe it. You would have to tell her it wasn't true. Not telling her meant that you didn't think she cared about the truth. You insulted her if you supposed she didn't care. Mark would say you insulted her. Even if it hurt her a bit at first, you insulted her if you thought she couldn't bear it. And afterwards she would be happy, because she would be free. "It's no use, Mamma. I shan't ever want to be confirmed." "Want--want--want! You ought to want, then. You say you believe the Christian Faith--" Now--now. A clean quick cut. No jagged ends hanging. "That's it. I don't believe a single word of it."