1 The poison tongue of Satan had done its work.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 2 And therefore the tongues about him had ceased their babble.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 5 3 Stephen, his tongue cleaving to his palate, bowed his head, praying with his heart.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 4 One evening his father came home full of news which kept his tongue busy all through dinner.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 2 5 He tried to bid his tongue speak that he might seem at ease, watching her as she undid her gown, noting the proud conscious movements of her perfumed head.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 2 6 The Europe they had come from lay out there beyond the Irish Sea, Europe of strange tongues and valleyed and woodbegirt and citadelled and of entrenched and marshalled races.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 4 7 He ate his dinner with surly appetite and when the meal was over and the grease-strewn plates lay abandoned on the table, he rose and went to the window, clearing the thick scum from his mouth with his tongue and licking it from his lips.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 8 Because on the day when he had made his first holy communion in the chapel he had shut his eyes and opened his mouth and put out his tongue a little: and when the rector had stooped down to give him the holy communion he had smelt a faint winy smell off the rector's breath after the wine of the mass.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 1 9 Every sense of the flesh is tortured and every faculty of the soul therewith: the eyes with impenetrable utter darkness, the nose with noisome odours, the ears with yells and howls and execrations, the taste with foul matter, leprous corruption, nameless suffocating filth, the touch with redhot goads and spikes, with cruel tongues of flame.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 10 He believed this all the more, and with trepidation, because of the divine gloom and silence wherein dwelt the unseen Paraclete, Whose symbols were a dove and a mighty wind, to sin against Whom was a sin beyond forgiveness, the eternal mysterious secret Being to Whom, as God, the priests offered up mass once a year, robed in the scarlet of the tongues of fire.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 4