Dubliners

S. Cath­er­ine’s Church, Meath Street

little house in Great Bri­tain Street.

But the grey face still fol­lowed me. It mur­mured; and I un­der­stood that it de­sired to con­fess some­thing. I felt my soul re­ced­ing into some pleas­ant and vi­cious re­gion; and there again I found it wait­ing for me. It began to con­fess to me in a mur­mur­ing voice and I wondered why it smiled con­tinu­ally and why the lips were so moist with spittle. But then I re­membered that it had died of para­lysis and I felt that I too was smil­ing feebly as if to ab­solve the si­mo­niac of his sin

sta­tion at the North Wall.

that life of com­mon­place sac­ri­fices clos­ing in fi­nal crazi­ness

odour of dusty cre­tonne

How well she re­membered the first time she had seen him;

Then she had to rush out as quickly as she could and do her mar­ket­ing, hold­ing her black leather purse tightly in her hand as she el­bowed her way through the crowds

she had those whom she had known all her life about her

ve ut­ter­ance to my an­ger