There was a long rivulet in the strand and, as he waded slowly up its course, he wondered at the endless drift of seaweed. The wind of the last day blew through his mind, his sins, the jewel-eyed harlots of his imagination, fled before the hurricane, squeaking like mice in their terror and huddled under a mane of hair. They were like ivory; only soft. --He was the handsomest man in Cork at that time, by God he was! The women used to stand to look after him in the street.
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