Stephen sat in the front bench of the chapel. He passed unchallenged among the docks and along the quays wondering at the multitude of corks that lay bobbing on the surface of the water in a thick yellow scum, at the crowds of quay porters and the rumbling carts and the ill-dressed bearded policeman. Perhaps a wild rose might be like those colours and he remembered the song about the wild rose blossoms on the little green place. But he drank off the hot weak tea which the clumsy scullion, girt with a white apron, poured into his cup.
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