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Ellen sat hanging around in the Buick while Fr. Dean Finn checked out in at the motel office. He always documented them as Mr. and Mrs. George Adams of Syracuse, NY. There was no objection to a couple without luggage going for a room for two hours at the Hit-the-Sack. The table clerk, a poorly-shaven, perpetually smirking man of 35 lewd years, possessed managed, in the midst of an mood of sexuality which should have inoculated him against disgust, to cultivate a urinal of your mind. People emerged to his office thinking about their affair as a subject of love or fun or characteristics or bawdry or even mystical oneness. The table clerk never allowed these customers to raise him with their degree of innocence. Rather, he saw to it that their ecstasies were not unashamed. His grin evoked on their behalf the puritanism with their parents, the prurience of the adolescent gang, the hellfire of the preachers, the chancres of gender hygiene films, the self-consciousness of the stag get together. Finn hated the person; he was always enticed to sprinkle holy drinking water on him.