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Professor Magennis was speaking to me about you, J. J. O'Molloy said to Stephen. What do you think really of that hermetic crowd, the opal hush poets: A. E. the mastermystic? That Blavatsky woman started it. She was a nice old bag of tricks. A. E. has been telling some yankee interviewer that you came to him in the small hours of the morning to ask him about planes of consciousness.
J. J. O'Molloy took out his cigarettecase. False lull. Something quite ordinary. Messenger took out his matchbox thoughtfully and lit his cigar. I have often thought since on looking back over that strange time that it was that small act, trivial in itself, that striking of that match, that determined the whole aftercourse of both our lives.
Blast you! The dust from those sacks, J. J. O'Molloy said politely. No, Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a... cold night before... blast your soul... night before last... and there was a hell of a lot of draught... He held his handkerchief ready for the coming... I was... Glasnevin this morning... poor little... what do you call him... Chow!... Mother of Moses!
The finest display of oratory I ever heard was a speech made by John F Taylor at the college historical society. He turned towards Myles Crawford and said: You know Gerald Fitzgibbon. Then you can imagine the style of his discourse. He is sitting with Tim Healy, J. J. O'Molloy said, rumour has it, on the Trinity college estates commission.
"Gentlemen," said Lothair, "I really had no wish to intrude upon you; all I desired was to speak to Father O'Molloy. I wished to tell him that it would have given me pleasure to subscribe to these schools. I am not a Roman Catholic, but I respect the Roman Catholic religion. But I can do nothing that will imply the slightest sanction of the opinions I have heard expressed this evening.
The collectors approached Lothair, who was standing at the end of the room opposite to the platform, where the space was not crowded. "I should like to speak to Father O'Molloy," said Lothair; "he is a priest, and will understand my views." "He is a priest here," said one of the collectors with a sardonic laugh, "but I am glad to say you will not find his name in the directory.
Nulla bona, Jack, he said, raising his hand to his chin. I'm up to here. I've been through the hoop myself. I was looking for a fellow to back a bill for me no later than last week. Sorry, Jack. You must take the will for the deed. With a heart and a half if I could raise the wind anyhow. J. J. O'Molloy pulled a long face and walked on silently. They caught up on the others and walked abreast.
He fumbled in his pocket pulling out the crushed typesheets. Foot and mouth. I know. That'll be all right. That'll go in. Where are they? That's all right. He thrust the sheets back and went into the inner office. J. J. O'Molloy, about to follow him in, said quietly to Stephen: I hope you will live to see it published. Myles, one moment. He went into the inner office, closing the door behind him.
Talking about the invincibles, he said, did you see that some hawkers were up before the recorder? O yes, J. J. O'Molloy said eagerly. Lady Dudley was walking home through the park to see all the trees that were blown down by that cyclone last year and thought she'd buy a view of Dublin. And it turned out to be a commemoration postcard of Joe Brady or Number One or Skin-the-Goat.
He would never have spoken with the Eternal amid lightnings on Sinai's mountaintop nor ever have come down with the light of inspiration shining in his countenance and bearing in his arms the tables of the law, graven in the language of the outlaw. He ceased and looked at them, enjoying a silence. J. J. O'Molloy said not without regret: And yet he died without having entered the land of promise.
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