Anaphora
His loins spent, Anna dismissed, Padre Antonio deliberately left his hands unwashed so that, at evening mass, between collect and acclamation, he might furtively enjoy that heavenly-hellish aroma which lingered so powerfully on his lips and fingers: sweet, pungent, rich as treacle. “Corpo di Cristo.” “Amen.” Kneeling to receive, bewimpled Suor Angelica recognised that scent too – similar to her own, yet subtly different,...