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Updated: May 8, 2025
And were they good boys at school? O. That was very good now. And what was his name? Jack Sohan. And his name? Ger. Gallaher. And the other little man? His name was Brunny Lynam. O, that was a very nice name to have. Father Conmee gave a letter from his breast to Master Brunny Lynam and pointed to the red pillarbox at the corner of Fitzgibbon street.
Father Conmee sat in a corner of the tramcar, a blue ticket tucked with care in the eye of one plump kid glove, while four shillings, a sixpence and five pennies chuted from his other plump glovepalm into his purse. Passing the ivy church he reflected that the ticket inspector usually made his visit when one had carelessly thrown away the ticket.
From the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton grimaced with thick niggerlips at Father Conmee.
Katey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the door of the closesteaming kitchen. Did you put in the books? Boody asked. Maggy at the range rammed down a greyish mass beneath bubbling suds twice with her potstick and wiped her brow. They wouldn't give anything on them, she said. Father Conmee walked through Clongowes fields, his thinsocked ankles tickled by stubble. Where did you try? Boody asked.
Father Conmee at the altarrails placed the host with difficulty in the mouth of the awkward old man who had the shaky head. At Annesley bridge the tram halted and, when it was about to go, an old woman rose suddenly from her place to alight. The conductor pulled the bellstrap to stay the car for her.
Father Conmee went by Daniel Bergin's publichouse against the window of which two unlabouring men lounged. They saluted him and were saluted. Father Conmee passed H. J. O'Neill's funeral establishment where Corny Kelleher totted figures in the daybook while he chewed a blade of hay. A constable on his beat saluted Father Conmee and Father Conmee saluted the constable.
Bronze by gold, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head, appeared above the crossblind of the Ormond hotel. Yes, Martin Cunningham said, fingering his beard. I wrote to Father Conmee and laid the whole case before him. You could try our friend, Mr Power suggested backward. Boyd? Martin Cunningham said shortly. Touch me not.
Off an inward bound tram stepped the reverend Nicholas Dudley C. C. of saint Agatha's church, north William street, on to Newcomen bridge. At Newcomen bridge Father Conmee stepped into an outward bound tram for he disliked to traverse on foot the dingy way past Mud Island.
Father Conmee, walking, thought of his little book Old Times in the Barony and of the book that might be written about jesuit houses and of Mary Rochfort, daughter of lord Molesworth, first countess of Belvedere. A listless lady, no more young, walked alone the shore of lough Ennel, Mary, first countess of Belvedere, listlessly walking in the evening, not startled when an otter plunged.
Father Conmee doffed his silk hat and smiled, as he took leave, at the jet beads of her mantilla inkshining in the sun. And smiled yet again, in going. He had cleaned his teeth, he knew, with arecanut paste. Father Conmee walked and, walking, smiled for he thought on Father Bernard Vaughan's droll eyes and cockney voice. Pilate! Wy don't you old back that owlin mob? A zealous man, however.
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