When you told me that night in Harcourt Street those things about your private life, honest to God, Stevie, I was not able to eat my dinner. He bowed and walked quietly out of the room, closing the doors carefully and slowly. Then he was to go away for they were birds ever going and coming, building ever an unlasting home under the eaves of men's houses and ever leaving the homes they had built to wander. --Jesus! O Jesus! Jesus! He shook the sound out of his ears by an angry toss of his head and hurried on, stumbling through the mouldering offal, his heart already bitten by an ache of loathing and bitterness.