The corners hide him, standing there in absolution. He greets you with sincerity, and deil's smiles become his martyrs. There are craven deprecations from the callers, and daring, fellow-feeling prayers to ponder on, unresolved. Now, the mortal angels rend the sky to find him sitting on heavy weather; the vitiating veil. They curtail their graces. And the Vendor whiles away his wares to poorer folk who stand in queue: the drudge and the march, with little miracles to desire.