I remember thinking bitterly that she didn't know the half of what I
had to tell-if I told it. I knew I couldn't tell it, and understood
perfectly why the fellow in Mrs. Ryan's story made a
bad confession; it seemed to me a great shame that people
wouldn't stop criticising him. I remember that steep hill down to the
church, and the sunlit hillsides beyond the valley of the river, which
I saw in the gaps between the houses like Adam's last glimpse of
Paradise.