at annesley bridge the tram halted and， when it was about to go， an old woman rose suddenly from her place to alight. the conductor pulled the bellstrap to stay the car for her. she passed out with her basket and a market net： and father conmee saw the conductor help her and net and basket down： and father conmee thought that， as she had nearly passed the end of the penny fare， she was one of those good souls who had always to be told twice bless you， my child， that they have been absolved， pray for me. but they had so many worries in life， so many cares， poor creatures.
from the hoardings mr eugene stratton grinned with thick niggerlips at father conmee.
father conmee thought of the souls of black and brown and yellow men and of his sermon of saint peter claver s. j. and the african mission and of the propagation of the faith and of the millions of black and brown and yellow souls that had not received the baptism of water when their last hour came like a thief in the night. that book by the belgian jesuit， le nombre des élus， seemed to father conmee a reasonable plea. those were millions of human souls d by god in his own likeness to whom the faith had not (d. v.) been brought. but they were god's souls d by god. it seemed to father conmee a pity that they should all be lost， a waste， if one might say.
at the howth road stop father conmee alighted， was saluted by the conductor and saluted in his turn.
the malahide road was quiet. it pleased father conmee， road and name. the joybells were ringing in gay malahide. lord talbot de malahide， immediate hereditary lord admiral of malahide and the seas adjoining. then came the call to arms and she was maid， wife and widow in one day. those were oldworldish days， loyal times in joyous townlands， old times in the barony.
father conmee， walking， thought of his little book old times in the barony and of the book that might be written about jesuit houses and of mary rochfort， daughter of lord molesworth， first countess of belvedere.
a listless lady， no more young， walked alone the shore of lough ennel， mary， first countess of belvedere， listlessly walking in the evening， not startled when an otter plunged. who could know the truth？ not the jealous lord belvedere and not her confessor if she had not committed adultery fully， eiaculatio seminis inter vas naturale mulieris， with her husband's brother？ she would half confess if she had not all sinned as women did. only god knew and she and he， her husband's brother.