The doors of St. Jamison Doyle’s opened a few minutes after seven o’clock, letting the muffled voices of choir and organ drift towards heaven with the chimney smoke and hang with the frosted stars in the dark winter sky above Pittsburgh. The congregation filtered out gradually. First came the young loners, desperate to avoid awkward conversations with their parents’ friends, then the businessmen hurrying back to work. Next came the grouchy-looking bachelors who quietly begrudged the Mother of God a weekday Feast. A tide of noisy children followed, the exasperated faces of their harried parents bobbing . . .
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