Улисс
Chapter 1
andStephen,eachinhisownparticularway,bothinstinctivelyexchangedmeaningglances,inareligioussilenceofthestrictlyentrenousvarietyhowever,towardswhereSkin-the-Goat,aliasthekeeper,notturningahair,wasdrawingspurtsofliquidfromhisboileraffair.Hisinscrutablefacewhichwasreallyaworkofart,aperfectstudyinitself,beggaringdescription,conveyedtheimpressionthathedidn’tunderstandonejotofwhatwasgoingon.Funny,very!
Thereensuedasomewhatlengthypause.Onemanwasreadinginfitsandstartsastainedbycoffeeeveningjournal,anotherthecardwiththenativeschozade,anothertheseaman’sdischarge.MrBloom,sofarashewaspersonallyconcerned,wasjustponderinginpensivemood.Hevividlyrecollectedwhentheoccurrencealludedtotookplaceaswellasyesterday,roughlysomescoreofyearspreviouslyinthedaysofthelandtroubles,whenittookthecivilisedworldbystorm,figurativelyspeaking,earlyintheeighties,eightyonetobecorrect,whenhewasjustturnedfifteen.
—Ay,boss,thesailorbrokein.Giveusbackthempapers.
Therequestbeingcompliedwithheclawedthemupwithascrape.
—HaveyouseentherockofGibraltar?MrBloominquired.
Thesailorgrimaced,chewing,inawaythatmightbereadasyes,ayorno.
—Ah,you’vetouchedtheretoo,MrBloomsaid,Europapoint,thinkinghehad,inthehopethattherovermightpossiblybysomereminiscencesbuthefailedtodoso,simplylettingspirtajetofspewintothesawdust,andshookhisheadwithasortoflazyscorn.
—Whatyearwouldthatbeabout?MrBinterrogated.
