if we had about twenty years to play around with, I could come to tea at your place and make a habit of it. I could try to cultivate your buried religious sense, and you might even take a shine to me, your pet priest, if and when you ever became convinced I’m a normal man. I could wheedle you into knitting doilies for our parish bazaar and gradually tell you about my faith, and then maybe, just maybe, you’d start to ask a few of the right questions; and maybe, just maybe, when you’re about ninety-five years old, you’d be on your deathbed and ask the doctor to call good old Ronnie, and we’d
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