I may remark here, that I ere long found out several things, important
to be known, to a person living under such rules. One of these was, that
it was much better to confess to a priest, a sin committed against the
rules, because he would not require one of the penances I most disliked,
viz.: those which exposed of me to the observation of the nuns, or which
demanded self-debasement before them, like begging their pardon, kissing
the floor, or the Superior's feet, &c., and, besides, he as a confessor
was said to be bound to secrecy, and could not inform the Superior
against me. My conscience being as effectually unburthened by my
confession to the priest, as I had been taught to believe, I therefore
preferred not to tell my sins to any one else; and this course I found
was preferred by others for the same good reasons.

To Jane Ray, however, it sometimes appeared to be a matter of perfect
indifference, who knew her violations of rule, or to what penances she
exposed herself.

Often and often, while perfect silence prevailed among the nuns, at
meditation, or while nothing was to be heard except the voice of the
reader appointed for the day, no matter whose life or writings were
presented for our contemplations, Jane would break forth with some
remark or question, that would attract general attention, and often
cause a long and total interruption. Sometimes she would make some
harmless remark or inquiry aloud, as if through mere inadvertency, and
then her well-known voice, so strongly associated with every thing
singular and ridiculous, would arrest the attention of us all, and
generally incline us to smile, and even force us to laugh. The Superior
would then usually utter some hasty remonstrance, and many a time have I
heard her pronounce some penance upon her; but Jane had ever some
apology ready, or some reply calculated to irritate still farther, or to