North Richmond Street, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour when the school set the boys free. An uninhabited house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its neighbours. The other houses of the street, conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown imperturbable faces. The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, the pages of which were curled and damp. When the short days of winter came, dusk fell before we had eaten our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet, and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the houses, where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the cottages, to the back doors of the dripping gardens where odours rose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables. When we returned to the street, light from the kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner, we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan's sister came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea, we watched her from our shadow. We waited to see whether she would remain or go in, and, if she remained, we walked up to the steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door.