Then the night before I left I was in my grandmother’s house in Nun’s Island, packing up, and heard gravel thrown up against the window. She paused for a moment to get her voice under control and then went on: And then when it came to the time for me to leave Galway and come up to the convent he was much worse and I wouldn’t be let see him, so I wrote a letter saying I was going up to Dublin and would be back in the summer and hoping he would be better then. He had a very good voice, poor Michael Furey. He was going to study singing only for his health. We used to go out together, walking, you know, Gabriel, like the way they do in the country. He was very fond of me and he was such a gentle boy. He was in decline, they said, or something like that. And he was ill at the time in his lodgings in Galway and wouldn’t be let out, and his people in Oughterard were written to. It was in the winter, she said, about the beginning of the winter when I was going to leave my grandmother’s and come up here to the convent. Her hand was warm and moist: it did not respond to his touch, but he continued to caress it just as he had caressed her first letter to him that spring morning.
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