Улисс

           MotherGroganwas,oneimagines,akinswomanofMaryAnn.

           BuckMulligan’sfacesmiledwithdelight.

           —Charming!hesaidinafinicalsweetvoice,showinghiswhiteteethandblinkinghiseyespleasantly.Doyouthinkshewas?Quitecharming!

           Then,suddenlyovercloudingallhisfeatures,hegrowledinahoarsenedraspingvoiceashehewedagainvigorouslyattheloaf:

           —ForoldMaryAnn

           Shedoesn’tcareadamn.

           But,hisingupherpetticoats...

           Hecrammedhismouthwithfryandmunchedanddroned.

           Thedoorwaywasdarkenedbyanenteringform.

           —Themilk,sir!

           —Comein,ma’am,Mulligansaid.Kinch,getthejug.

           AnoldwomancameforwardandstoodbyStephen’selbow.

           —That’salovelymorning,sir,shesaid.GlorybetoGod.

           —Towhom?Mulligansaid,glancingather.Ah,tobesure!

           Stephenreachedbackandtookthemilkjugfromthelocker.

           —Theislanders,MulligansaidtoHainescasually,speakfrequentlyofthecollectorofprepuces.

           —Howmuch,sir?askedtheoldwoman.

           —Aquart,Stephensaid.

           Hewatchedherpourintothemeasureandthenceintothejugrichwhitemilk,nothers.Oldshrunkenpaps.Shepouredagainameasurefulandatilly.Oldandsecretshehadenteredfromamorningworld,maybeamessenger.Shepraisedthegoodnessofthemilk,pouringitout.Crouchingbyapatientcowatdaybreakinthelushfield,awitchonhertoadstool,herwrinkledfingersquickatthesquirtingdugs.Theylowedaboutherwhomtheyknew,dewsilkycattle.Silkofthekineandpooroldwoman,namesgivenherinoldtimes.