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Martin Cunningham spoke by turns, twirling the peak
of his beard, to the assistant town clerk and the subsheriff,
while John Wyse Nolan held his peace.
—What Dignam was that? long John Fanning asked.
Jimmy Henry made a grimace and lifted his left foot.
—O, my corns! he said plaintively. Come upstairs for
goodness’ sake till I sit down somewhere. Uff! Ooo! Mind!
Testily he made room for himself beside long John Fan-
ning’s flank and passed in and up the stairs.
—Come on up, Martin Cunningham said to the subsher-
iff. I don’t think you knew him or perhaps you did, though.
With John Wyse Nolan Mr Power followed them in.
—Decent little soul he was, Mr Power said to the stal-
wart back of long John Fanning ascending towards long
John Fanning in the mirror.
—Rather lowsized. Dignam of Menton’s office that was,
Martin Cunningham said.
Long John Fanning could not remember him.
Clatter of horsehoofs sounded from the air.
—What’s that? Martin Cunningham said.
All turned where they stood. John Wyse Nolan came
down again. From the cool shadow of the doorway he saw
the horses pass Parliament street, harness and glossy pas-
terns in sunlight shimmering. Gaily they went past before
his cool unfriendly eyes, not quickly. In saddles of the lead-
ers, leaping leaders, rode outriders.
—What was it? Martin Cunningham asked, as they went
on up the staircase.
—The lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of