Thrower knelt at the altar and cried out the name of the Lord. How'd you get snow clear down your shirt? The only possible explanation was that Thrower himself was too weak. It could not be that Satan was stronger than the Lord. And in the church he could pray and try to understand why the Lord didn't help him. Thrower had firewood there, so he'd be warm. He had to get indoors, but he couldn't bear to knock on anybody's door. His shirt was already wet, and now it clung to him and froze him to the bone. He probably lost his future in politics, but that was nothing compared to this: his own wife did witchery in his own home, and she did it against him, and he had no defense against it. Everything he'd been afraid of came true today. Her fending was so strong he staggered back, he headed for the door, he opened it and ran outside in just his shirt. He couldn't even think of taking a step toward her. He couldn't fall on his knees before her. He didn't care about her working alongside him in the store. He didn't care about sweet nights and gentle mornings. She was pretty enough, for a frontier woman, but he didn't care about pretty right now. It was the death of his plans he was facing, and his wife just had too much of that Miller family look about her. "I went into his room a man of God, and came out as a doubter." Certainties that had sustained him most of his life were suddenly split through by the questions of an ignorant boy. "How can he be on top of something that ain't got no top?" Even though Thrower had rejected the question as the result of ignorance and evil, the question had nevertheless pierced his heart and penetrated to the core of his belief. It was when he stood in Alvin's room, asking the boy to confess his faith, and the boy scoffed at the mysteries of God. Only then, with his eyes sore from crying, his voice feeble and hoarse, did he realize the moment when his faith was undermined.
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