She had always sat numbly inside the church confessional, trying to invent sins that seemed worth confessing but not so horrifying as to scandalize the priest. Now she had the unmistakable urge to confess. She wanted someone to know how Ianto had touched her—even if she was still trying to convince herself it had been nothing at all. A friendly gesture, a bracing pat on the shoulder. But didn’t all drownings begin with a harmless dribble of water? Effy hated that she couldn’t tell right from wrong, safe from unsafe. Her fear had transfigured the entire world. Looking at anything was like
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