“‘I think we’ll not have time for the lot, Jamie dear,’ said the priest. ‘But if ye were to tell me about one or two of these occasions, just so as I could be formin’ a notion as to the … er … severity of the offense …?’
‘Och, aye. Well, the worst was likely the time wi’ the butter churn.’
‘Butter churn? Ah … the sort with the handle pokin’ up?” Father Kenneth’s tone encompassed a sad compassion for the lewd possibilities suggested by this. “Oh, no, Father; it was a barrel churn. The sort that lies on its side, aye, with a wee handle to turn it? Well, it’s only that she was workin’ the churn with great vigor, and the laces of her bodice undone, so that her breasts wobbled to and fro, and the cloth clinging to her with the sweat of her work. Now, the churn was just the right height—and curved, aye?—so as make me think of bendin’ her across it and lifting her skirts, and—‘
My mouth opened involuntarily in shock. That was my bodice he was describing, my breasts, and my butter churn! To say nothing of my skirts. I remembered that particular occasion quite vividly, and if it had started with an impure thought, it certainly hadn’t stopped there.“
