1 there was something uncanny about him.
2 "I have my own theory about it," he said.
3 A few people were gathered about the stalls which were still open.
4 In my heart I thought that what he said about boys and sweethearts was reasonable.
5 Desisting from this, he began to wander about the far end of the field, aimlessly.
6 Nannie had leaned her head against the sofa-pillow and seemed about to fall asleep.
7 My idea is: let a young lad run about and play with young lads of his own age and not be.
8 After that he began to mope by himself, talking to no one and wandering about by himself.
9 When I left the kitchen he was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt.
10 We followed him with our eyes and saw that when he had gone on for perhaps fifty paces he turned about and began to retrace his steps.
11 And if a boy had a girl for a sweetheart and told lies about it then he would give him such a whipping as no boy ever got in this world.
12 All the work we had, she and me, getting in the woman to wash him and then laying him out and then the coffin and then arranging about the Mass in the chapel.
13 It was always I who emptied the packet into his black snuff-box for his hands trembled too much to allow him to do this without spilling half the snuff about the floor.
14 He began to speak to us about girls, saying what nice soft hair they had and how soft their hands were and how all girls were not so good as they seemed to be if one only knew.
15 He had told me stories about the catacombs and about Napoleon Bonaparte, and he had explained to me the meaning of the different ceremonies of the Mass and of the different vestments worn by the priest.
16 We spent a long time walking about the noisy streets flanked by high stone walls, watching the working of cranes and engines and often being shouted at for our immobility by the drivers of groaning carts.
17 We walked through the flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native land.
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