Slowly, slumped over the pommel, the half-caste became visible, the yellow canines jutting out of the open mouth; really, the priest thought, he deserved his reward — seven hundred pesos wasn't so much, but he could probably live on it — in that dusty hopeless village — for a whole year. He giggled again; he could never take the complications of destiny quite seriously, and it was just possible, he thought, that a year without anxiety might save this man's soul. You only had to turn up the underside of any situation and out came scuttling these small absurd contradictory situations. He had given way to despair — and out of that had emerged a human soul and love — not the best love, but love all the same. The mestizo said suddenly, ‘It's fate. I was told once by a fortune-teller … a reward …’

Graham Greene, The Power and the Glory (Penguin Books: Harmondsworth, 1984), p. 100


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