He thought: I shouldn’t have left her alone like that. God forgive me. I have no sense of responsibility: what can you expect of a whisky priest? and he struggled to his feet and began to climb back towards the plateau. He was tormented by ideas; it wasn’t only the woman: he was responsible for the American as well: the two faces—his own and the gunman’s—were hanging together on the police station wall, as if they were brothers in a family portrait gallery. You didn’t put temptation in a brother’s way.
