—Dedalus, don't spy on us, sure you won't?
Wells's face was there. He looked at it and saw that Wells was afraid.
—I didn't mean to. Sure you won't?
His father had told him, whatever he did, never to peach on a fellow. He shook his head and answered no and felt glad.
Wells said:
—I didn't mean to, honour bright. It was only for cod. I'm sorry.
The face and the voice went away. Sorry because he was afraid. Afraid that it was some disease. Canker was a disease of plants and cancer one of animals: or another different. That was a long time ago then out on the playgrounds in the evening light, creeping from point to point on the fringe of his line, a heavy bird flying low through the grey light. Leicester Abbey lit up. Wolsey died there. The abbots buried him themselves.