dishes in neat stacks in the kitchen. And sometimes they forgot to maintain their enforced silence and as soon as the doors were closed between the two rooms, they burst into soft song.
One hymn was June’s favorite:
“In that cou-untry—
To which I jour-er-ny
My Redeemer, my Redeemer
Is its King.
There is no sorrow
Nor any si-ighing
Nor any tears there,
Nor any cry-y-ing.
I’m a pi-ilgrim,
I’m a stra-anger,
I can tarry, I can tarry
But an hour.”
“Huh,” Adele said. “Feeling religious?”
“Is that a nice way to talk?”
“Just because you went to church this morning, you get holy!”
“Jesus, Lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy bosom fly—”
“Hypercrite! Singing songs like that when you’re in love with a married man.” It seemed Adele had been reading her sister’s diary.
“You’re a liar,” June told her trembling.
“‘He who calleth his brother or sister a fool or a liar is in danger of hell fire.’” It was her turn.
[39]
