I knew a black eye when I saw it. I knew a busted jaw too. My own popped out to the side as I processed the beating she’d taken, and I stared at her wedding dress, taking in all the covering, from the wrist-length sleeves to the way that not an ounce of her chest was revealed to me. Sure, they might have been going for the demure look, but I’d seen nuns show more skin.
