All the boys seemed to him very strange. They had all fathers and mothers and different clothes and voices. He longed to be at home and lay his head on his mother's lap. But he could not: and so he longed for the play and study and prayers to be over and to be in bed.
He drank another cup of hot tea and Fleming said:
—What's up? Have you a pain or what's up with you?
—I don't know, Stephen said.
—Sick in your breadbasket, Fleming said, because your face looks white. It will go away.