Улисс

           Yourmotherandsomevisitorcameoutofthedrawingroom.Sheaskedyouwhowasinyourroom.

           —Yes?BuckMulligansaid.WhatdidIsay?Iforget.

           —Yousaid,Stephenanswered,O,it’sonlyDedaluswhosemotherisbeastlydead.

           AflushwhichmadehimseemyoungerandmoreengagingrosetoBuckMulligan’scheek.

           —DidIsaythat?heasked.Well?Whatharmisthat?

           Heshookhisconstraintfromhimnervously.

           —Andwhatisdeath,heasked,yourmother’soryoursormyown?Yousawonlyyourmotherdie.IseethempopoffeverydayintheMaterandRichmondandcutupintotripesinthedissectingroom.It’sabeastlythingandnothingelse.Itsimplydoesn’tmatter.Youwouldn’tkneeldowntoprayforyourmotheronherdeathbedwhensheaskedyou.Why?Becauseyouhavethecursedjesuitstraininyou,onlyit’sinjectedthewrongway.Tomeit’sallamockeryandbeastly.Hercerebrallobesarenotfunctioning.ShecallsthedoctorsirPeterTeazleandpicksbuttercupsoffthequilt.Humourhertillit’sover.YoucrossedherlastwishindeathandyetyousulkwithmebecauseIdon’twhingelikesomehiredmutefromLalouette’s.Absurd!IsupposeIdidsayit.Ididn’tmeantooffendthememoryofyourmother.

           Hehadspokenhimselfintoboldness.Stephen,shieldingthegapingwoundswhichthewordshadleftinhisheart,saidverycoldly:

           —Iamnotthinkingoftheoffencetomymother.

           —Ofwhatthen?BuckMulliganasked.

           —Oftheoffencetome,Stephenanswered.

           BuckMulliganswungroundonhisheel.

           —O,animpossibleperson!heexclaimed.

           Hewalkedoffquicklyroundtheparapet.