Stephen walked on alone and out into the quiet of Kildare Street opposite Maple's hotel he stood to wait, patient again. Said religion was not a lying-in hospital. A sense of fear of the unknown moved in the heart of his weariness, a fear of symbols and portents, of the hawk-like man whose name he bore soaring out of his captivity on osier-woven wings, of Thoth, the god of writers, writing with a reed upon a tablet and bearing on his narrow ibis head the cusped moon. How fine are its tiny grains! And how many of those tiny little grains go to make up the small handful which a child grasps in its play.
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