A hush fell on the class. Mr. Tate did not break it but dug with his hand between his thighs while his heavily starched linen creaked about his neck and wrists. Stephen did not look up. It was a raw spring morning and his eyes were still smarting and weak. He was conscious of failure and of detection, of the squalor of his own mind and home, and felt against his neck the raw edge of his turned and jagged collar.

A short loud laugh from Mr. Tate set the class more at ease.

―Perhaps you didn’t know that, he said.

―Where? asked Stephen.

Mr. Tate withdrew his delving hand and spread out the essay.