(See Cover)
At the Monastery of the Mountain of Light in Czestochowa, early last week, the arm of the priest who stands to the left of the doorway, dips his little broom in a can of holy water, and dexterously swishes precious spray over the pilgrims, bestowing virtue on the devout but not wasting a drop, grew tired. Thousands of grim, black-clad peasants who had been living on potatoes and pickles, hundreds of gayly costumed villagers, a few colonels in uniform, and counts in Bond Street tweeds,...
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