The fire rose and fell on the wall. He brooded sourly on his judgement and repeated with the same flat force: --A flaming bloody sugar, that's what he is! It was his epitaph for all dead friendships and Stephen wondered whether it would ever be spoken in the same tone over his memory. It was idle for him to move himself to be generous towards them, to tell himself that if he ever came to their gates, stripped of his pride, beaten and in beggar's weeds, that they would be generous towards him, loving him as themselves. Do you remember the night? Cranly lost his temper and began to talk about Wicklow bacon.
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