Sweat beaded the folded hands of Argentine farmers in their pews. Sweat wilted the collar of the priest in the sanctuary. In an Indian summer hot beyond measure, the villagers of San Luis were trying to worship God. Father Juan Guerrera blessed the bread and wine. The villagers trailed forward to the altar rail to receive the Communion.
Sweltering in cassock, alb, chasuble and stole, Father Guerrera looked down at his flock. His eye fell on a cool expanse of bare shoulder and open bosom. "Elida." he roared, "go home and take off...
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