Apparently this breached their guidelines.
"Can you spare a shilling’ for an old altar-boy, Sister?”
His voice was a soft lilting brogue but his hand clasped firm about her ankle. She looked down at him, lying huddled along the wall. She’d thought him a pile of old rags, something left out for the dust cart. A face peeked out from beneath: weather-beaten and world-weary, the face of a martyr. Smells like he shat himself.
She raised the skirts of her habit, as though to kneel down beside him. His rheumy eyes ranged along the length of thigh, finding the sweet spot of bare flesh between garter and drawer.
“Ah, now, Sister – “
She drew back her foot, square toed brogue solid as a house brick, and kicked him full in the face, as a quarterback might punt at a football. The nape of his grimy matted head bounced against cinderblock, sounding like a watermelon dropped onto a concrete floor. Beneath the filthy blanket his leg twitched: once, twice, and then stilled.
Sister George’s hand found its way between her thighs: squeezing and working there, panting and sighing until – she threw back her head and howled her act of contrition at the waning moon.
“Father!”
