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" Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three weeks since my last confession. These are my sins.” I told him I had been disrespectful to my grandmother and had sworn under my breath on eleven different occasions. Then, in the most humble voice I could manufacture, I confessed how I had sat wickedly by while I watched my good friend Rosalie Pysyk deface her religion book with a filthy, immoral picture. I listened, somewhat amazed, to the treacherous catch in my voice. “She’s really okay, Father. I’m sure she didn’t even mean to do it. . . . For these and all the sins of my past life, I am heartily sorry.” For my penance, Father Duptulski gave me ten Hail Marys, something that struck me as a reasonable punishment for an accomplice, a mere bridesmaid in crime. I knelt and prayed—not for forgiveness but for the accuracy of my assumption: that the sanctity of the confessional applied more to murderers than kids. "
― Wally Lamb , She's Come Undone