His lungs dilated and sank as if he were inhaling a warm moist unsustaining air and he smelt again the moist warm air which hung in the bath in Clongowes above the sluggish turf-coloured water. And what a century it has been. My soul frets in the shadow of his language. His day began with an heroic offering of its every moment of thought or action for the intentions of the sovereign pontiff and with an early mass.
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