en your mouth. What? _Corpus:_ body. Corpse. Good
idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. They
don't seem to chew it: only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating bits of a
corpse. Why the cannibals cotton to it.

He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by
one, and seek their places. He approached a bench and seated himself in
its corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots we have to wear.
We ought to have hats modelled on our heads. They were about him here
and there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for
it to melt in their stomachs. Something like those mazzoth: it's that
sort of bread: unleavened shewbread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes
them feel happy. Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels it's called.
There's a big idea behind it, kind of kingdom of God is within you feel.
First communicants. Hokypoky penny a lump. Then feel all like one family
party, same in the theatre, all in the same swim. They do. I'm sure of
that. Not so lonely. In our confraternity. Then come out a bit spreeish.
Let off steam. Thing is if you really believe in it. Lourdes cure,
waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding. Old
fellow asleep near that confessionbox. Hence those snores. Blind faith.
Safe in the arms of kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time next
year.

He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel an
instant before it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace
affair he had on. Suppose he lost the pin of his. He wouldn't know what
to do to. Bald spot behind. Letters on his back: I.N.R.I? No: I.H.S.
Molly told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no: I have
suffered, it is. And the other one? Iron nails ran in.

Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request. Turn up with
a veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her. She might be here
with a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing all the same on the
sly. Their character. That fellow that turned queen's evidence on the
invincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion
every morning. This very church. Peter Carey, yes. No, Peter Claver I am
thinking of. Denis Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six children
at home. And plotting that murder all the time. Those crawthumpers,
now that's a good name for them, there's always something shiftylooking
about them. They're not straight men of business either