And I prayed at night, kneeling, great waves of religious emotion going
over me. And when my father saw me praying by the bedside, I felt
awkwardly, shamefully happy that he saw me. And I took to posing a
childishness, an innocence toward him.

Jenkins, the little stringy feed merchant, had two daughters, one
thirteen, Alva, and another Silvia, who was fifteen or sixteen.. and a
son, Jimmy, about seven....

It was over Alva and Silvia that my father and Jenkins used to come
together, teasing me. And, though the girls drew me with an enchanting
curiosity, I would protest that I didn't like girls ... that when I
became full-grown I would never marry, but would study books and mind my
business, single....

After this close, crafty, lascivious joking between them, my father
would end proudly with--

"Johnnie's a strange boy, he really doesn't care about such things. All
he cares about is books."

So I succeeded in completely fooling my father as to the changes going
on within me.

* * * * *

Though I had not an atom of belief left in orthodox Christianity (or
thought I had not) I still possessed this all-pervasive need to pray to
God. A need as strong as physical hunger.