1923

There is a mob outside the temple.  Believers outnumber the one hundred wary police by fifty to one.  They keep coming, piling from autos, leaping from trolley cars.

Jubilant!

A fresh division of uniformed cops forms a phalanx and busts the crowd in two at Sunset Boulevard.  They usher through a flat-bed truck.  It’s a float, a miniature version of the Angelus Temple itself.  A banner hangs from the carnation cross atop the rose-covered dome, “Announcing The Opening Of The Church Of The Foursquare Gospel.”

As the float passes through the crowd, a murmur travels with it.  “It has come straight from the Tournament of Roses.”  “It’s won the Grand Marshal’s prize.” “God bless Sister and her work.”

Following behind the float, swept through the crowd in its wake, limps a hideous figure clutching a small bundle.

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