--You are an artist, are you not, Mr Dedalus? said the dean, glancing up and blinking his pale eyes. They are obstructionists who despair, and who would destroy confidence in the ability of our people to solve wisely and for civilization the mighty problems resting upon them. I had made her a receptacle of lurid things, but there was an odd recognition of my superiority--my accomplishments and my function-- in her patience under my pain. He had told himself bitterly as he walked through the streets that she was a figure of the womanhood of her country, a bat- like soul waking to the consciousness of itself in darkness and secrecy and loneliness, tarrying awhile, loveless and sinless, with her mild lover and leaving him to whisper of innocent transgressions in the latticed ear of a priest.
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