Margaret looked up at him from where she sat by the window.
"Oh, Brother Gregory, what's wrong with your hand"
"I'm just scratching it; it itches."
"Really, is it red?"
"No, it's just a bite. You gave me a flea."
"I don't have fleas, Brother Gregory," insisted Margaret.
"Everyone has fleas, Margaret. It's part of God's plan."
"I don't. I wash them off."
"Margaret, you haven't any sense at all. They just hop back. You can't wash enough to keep them off."
"I do."
"Aren't you afraid your skin will come off? It could, you know. That's much worse than fleas." Brother Gregory spoke with an air of absolute certainty.
"Everyone tells me that. It hasn't come off yet."
"Margaret, you're too hardheaded for your own good. Now take for your next sentence, 'Fleas do not wash off.'"
"Is this right?" She held up the tablet, and Brother Gregory shook his head in mock indignation.
"I despair of you, Margaret. Flea is not spelled with one e--it's spelled with two.
