Quotation from: A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

Written by: James Joyce


He did not know. His sins trickled from his lips, one by one, trickled
in shameful drops from his soul, festering and oozing like a sore, a
squalid stream of vice. The last sins oozed forth, sluggish, filthy.
There was no more to tell. He bowed his head, overcome.


The Priest was silent. Then he asked:


--How old are you, my child?

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