That was why the fellows seemed to him smaller and farther away and the goalposts so thin and far and the soft grey sky so high up. He saw himself sitting at his table in Bray the morning after the discussion at the Christmas dinner table, trying to write a poem about Parnell on the back of one of his father's second moiety notices. He had felt a subtle, dark, and murmurous presence penetrate his being and fire him with a brief iniquitous lust: it, too, had slipped beyond his grasp leaving his mind lucid and indifferent. To admit that this picture has its shades is but to say that it is still the condition of men upon earth.
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