where odours arose from the ashpits

towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns

rusty bicycle-pump

the thin hair at the crown

their old coats covered with dust and soot

He had always passed without turning his head to look. It was his habit to walk swiftly in the street even by day and whenever he found himself in the city late at night he hurried on his way apprehensively and excitedly.

But shyness had always held him back; and so the books had remained on their shelves.

The half-moons of his nails were perfect and when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish white teeth.

we were too tired to carry out our project of visiting the Pigeon House

green eyes

too small

jumped down

some boldly, some in jest and some almost in fear:

I’m surprised

driving down Earl Street one night with two fellows with her on a car.

I can connect Nothing with nothing. The broken finger-nails of dirty hands. My people humble people who expect Nothing.”

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding