1 A keen October wind was blowing round the bank.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 2 2 The stars of heaven were falling upon the earth like the figs cast by the fig-tree which the wind has shaken.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 3 His throat ached with a desire to cry aloud, the cry of a hawk or eagle on high, to cry piercingly of his deliverance to the winds.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 4 4 He sat listening to the words and following the ways of adventure that lay open in the coals, arches and vaults and winding galleries and jagged caverns.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 2 5 The wind blew over him and passed on to the myriads and myriads of other souls on whom God's favour shone now more and now less, stars now brighter and now dimmer sustained and failing.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 6 The wind of the last day blew through his mind, his sins, the jewel-eyed harlots of his imagination, fled before the hurricane, squeaking like mice in their terror and huddled under a mane of hair.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 7 A figure that had seemed to him by day demure and innocent came towards him by night through the winding darkness of sleep, her face transfigured by a lecherous cunning, her eyes bright with brutish joy.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 2 8 The droning voice of the professor continued to wind itself slowly round and round the coils it spoke of, doubling, trebling, quadrupling its somnolent energy as the coil multiplied its ohms of resistance.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 5 9 Soft language issued from their spittleless lips as they swished in slow circles round and round the field, winding hither and thither through the weeds, dragging their long tails amid the rattling canisters.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 10 A tremulous chill blew round his heart, no stronger than a little wind, and yet, listening and suffering silently, he seemed to have laid an ear against the muscle of his own heart, feeling it close and quail, listening to the flutter of its ventricles.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man By James JoyceContextHighlight In Chapter 3 11 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