Hour after hour, as the blocks-long, four-abreast line of patient, pious Mexicans inched forward, a squat, swarthy man moved stolidly along with it. It was worth the trouble, he reflected. It was not every day that a Mexican could see so holy a relic with his own eyes. It was not every day that a Belgian monk, trying to promote peace in the Holy Land, arrived on a world tour with a splinter from Jesucristo's own cross. Dios, what excitement! Red Cross ambulances screamed up & down, carting off women & children trampled in the crush.
At long last, the...
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