They had told him that he had a great look of his grandfather and Mr Dedalus had agreed that he was an ugly likeness. He believed this all the more, and with trepidation, because of the divine gloom and silence wherein dwelt the unseen Paraclete, Whose symbols were a dove and a mighty wind, to sin against Whom was a sin beyond forgiveness, the eternal mysterious secret Being to Whom, as God, the priests offered up mass once a year, robed in the scarlet of the tongues of fire. That was what, repeatedly, I dipped into my room and locked the door to say to myself. He had broken a thickness of ice, the formation of many a winter; had had his reasons for a long silence.
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