"I mean that's HIS way--the master's. Do you know what we call a notion like that in Roscommon? --Hoosh! Blast you! Cranly cried, clapping his hands. And he remembered an evening when he had dismounted from a borrowed creaking bicycle to pray to God in a wood near Malahide. I had an absolute certainty that I should see again what I had already seen, but something within me said that by offering myself bravely as the sole subject of such experience, by accepting, by inviting, by surmounting it all, I should serve as an expiatory victim and guard the tranquility of my companions.
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