The pastor was speaking of St. Augustine and his pears. Something about youth in a pear grove, something about stealing for stealing’s sake, something about the seduction of disobedience. The faint taste of pear rose in the back of Isabel’s throat. The pastor was quoting, looking down at notes from the pulpit: “It was foul, St. Augustine wrote of his childish actions. It was foul and I loved it. I loved my own undoing. And so in considering our own—”
