“It feels good... doesn’t it?” Doctor Moore asked in a croaky tone.“Mmmm...” was the sound I made.“Wet them... wet your fingers... and tou...h your nipples,” the doctor advised.She sounded breathless.I brought each hand to my mouth in turn and was surprised to find out how much saliva I had. Carrying a finger load of spit each hand returned to its respective tit and applied its slippery cargo to my crinkled areola. ‘There... there it is... that’s what was missing,’ I realized and grasped the firm. 10, 1978As I reflect back on my 65 years, a little more than 25 ofwhich I spent as a nun in the Order of the Sisters of St. Michael of theAngels, I look back from the perspective of the social changes brought by thoseyears, changes that shaped both my personal life and society in general, and Ifeel it is important to record the history of my formative experiences as ayoung nun in the 1930s, as well my experiences as an established sister of myorder in the 1940s and 50?s.This, my personal. More

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