Page 177 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

—Sorry! Sorry! O sorry!
The slide clicked back and his heart bounded in his
breast. The face of an old priest was at the grating, avert-
ed from him, leaning upon a hand. He made the sign of
the cross and prayed of the priest to bless him for he had
sinned. Then, bowing his head, he repeated the CONFIT-
EOR in fright. At the words MY MOST GRIEVOUS FAULT
he ceased, breathless.
—How long is it since your last confession, my child?
—A long time, father.
—A month, my child?
—Longer, father.
—Three months, my child?
—Longer, father.
—Six months?
—Eight months, father.
He had begun. The priest asked:
—And what do you remember since that time?
He began to confess his sins: masses missed, prayers not
said, lies.
—Anything else, my child?
Sins of anger, envy of others, gluttony, vanity, disobedi-
ence.
—Anything else, my child?
There was no help. He murmured:
—I... committed sins of impurity, father.
The priest did not turn his head.
—With yourself, my child?
—And... with others.

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