Then he said carelessly:
--Tell me, for example, would you deflower a virgin?
--Excuse me, Stephen said politely, is that not the ambition of most
young gentlemen?
--What then is your point of view? Cranly asked.
His last phrase, sour smelling as the smoke of charcoal and
disheartening, excited Stephen's brain, over which its fumes seemed to
brood.
--Look here, Cranly, he said. You have asked me what I would do and
what I would not do. I will tell you what I will do and what I will not
do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call
itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express
myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as
I can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use--
silence, exile, and cunning.
Cranly seized his arm and steered him round so as to lead him back
towards Leeson Park. He laughed almost slyly and pressed Stephen's arm
with an elder's affection.
--Cunning indeed! he said. Is it you? You poor poet, you!
--And you made me confess to you, Stephen said, thrilled by his touch,
as I have confessed to you so many other things, have I not?
--Yes, my child, Cranly said, still gaily.
--You made me confess the fears that I have.
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