Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit

by Jeanette Winterson

‘Ah, seven,’ he muttered. ‘How blessed, the seven days of creation, the seven-branched candlestick, the seven seals.’ (Seven seals? I had not yet reached Revelation in my directed reading, and I thought he meant some Old Testament amphibians I had overlooked. I spent weeks trying to find them, in case they came up as a quiz question.)

left him to it. When I came back into the hall somebody asked me if I’d seen Pastor Finch. ‘He’s in the Sunday School Room playing with the Fuzzy Felt,’ I replied.

There are different sorts of treachery, but betrayal is betrayal wherever you find it. She burnt a lot more than the letters that night in the backyard.