Дублінці
Grace
“I’an’t‘an,”heanswered,“‘y‘ongueishurt.”
“Show.”
TheotherleanedoverthewellofthecarandpeeredintoMr.Kernan’smouthbuthecouldnotsee.Hestruckamatchand,shelteringitintheshellofhishands,peeredagainintothemouthwhichMr.Kernanopenedobediently.Theswayingmovementofthecarbroughtthematchtoandfromtheopenedmouth.Thelowerteethandgumswerecoveredwithclottedbloodandaminutepieceofthetongueseemedtohavebeenbittenoff.Thematchwasblownout.
“That’sugly,”saidMr.Power.
“Sha,‘snothing,”saidMr.Kernan,closinghismouthandpullingthecollarofhisfilthycoatacrosshisneck.
Mr.Kernanwasacommercialtravelleroftheoldschoolwhichbelievedinthedignityofitscalling.Hehadneverbeenseeninthecitywithoutasilkhatofsomedecencyandapairofgaiters.Bygraceofthesetwoarticlesofclothing,hesaid,amancouldalwayspassmuster.HecarriedonthetraditionofhisNapoleon,thegreatBlackwhite,whosememoryheevokedattimesbylegendandmimicry.ModernbusinessmethodshadsparedhimonlysofarastoallowhimalittleofficeinCroweStreet,onthewindowblindofwhichwaswrittenthenameofhisfirmwiththeaddress—London,E.C.
