San Francisco had been hot. It was one of those October days in the city which make the natives sweat, swear, and bless the fog they had cursed the week before. Already the radio predicted another day in the upper eighties.

Trudging up the driveway from the Sisters’ Residence to the main college building, Mary Helen stopped to catch her breath. Sisters’ Residence, indeed! Nothing but academia for “convent,” she thought, staring back at the plain, squat structure. It looked like the college’s poor relation. She didn’t know if she’d ever get used to calling that unpretentious square anything but a convent. As long as she was living on the hill, however, she figured the only decent thing to do was try.

Shielding her eyes against the glaring sun, the old nun admired the imposing building ahead. Its majestic stonework shimmered against the cloudless sky. All its windows, like so many slits in a castle turret, were flung open to catch the morning coolness. Even the gargoyles seemed to be sweating.

It’s going to be a scorcher, she thought, checking her watch. Nine-thirty. Plenty of time. Her appointment with Professor Villanueva wasn’t until nine forty-five.

As she approached the side of the building, voices tore through the quiet. Stopping, she looked up. The sounds were coming from one of the first few tiny windows on the second floor. Although at first she could not make out what was being said, the tone was unmistakable-anger.

“Bastardo!” a furious voice shouted.

Mary Helen hurried around to the front of the building. No matter what the language, there are some words you can always understand.

“Morning, Sister.” A student passed her on the front steps of the main building. Mary Helen hesitated before the ornate double doors. Above them, rococo lanterns framed gold-leaf letters proclaiming: Mount St. Francis College for Women, Founded MCMXXX.