He sat by the fire in the kitchen, not daring to speak for happiness. His last phrase, sour smelling as the smoke of charcoal and disheartening, excited Stephen's brain, over which its fumes seemed to brood. A very few of them, in fact, passing, in constant sight of my pupils, without a fresh incident, sufficed to give to grievous fancies and even to odious memories a kind of brush of the sponge. The thought slid like a cold shining rapier into his tender flesh: confession.
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