Улисс

           —Apier,sir,Armstrongsaid.Athingoutinthewater.Akindofabridge.Kingstownpier,sir.

           Somelaughedagain:mirthlessbutwithmeaning.Twointhebackbenchwhispered.Yes.Theyknew:hadneverlearnednoreverbeeninnocent.All.Withenvyhewatchedtheirfaces:Edith,Ethel,Gerty,Lily.Theirlikes:theirbreaths,too,sweetenedwithteaandjam,theirbraceletstitteringinthestruggle.

           —Kingstownpier,Stephensaid.Yes,adisappointedbridge.

           Thewordstroubledtheirgaze.

           —How,sir?Comynasked.Abridgeisacrossariver.

           ForHaines’schapbook.No-oneheretohear.Tonightdeftlyamidwilddrinkandtalk,topiercethepolishedmailofhismind.Whatthen?Ajesteratthecourtofhismaster,indulgedanddisesteemed,winningaclementmaster’spraise.Whyhadtheychosenallthatpart?Notwhollyforthesmoothcaress.Forthemtoohistorywasatalelikeanyothertoooftenheard,theirlandapawnshop.

           HadPyrrhusnotfallenbyabeldam’shandinArgosorJuliusCaesarnotbeenknifedtodeath.Theyarenottobethoughtaway.Timehasbrandedthemandfetteredtheyarelodgedintheroomoftheinfinitepossibilitiestheyhaveousted.Butcanthosehavebeenpossibleseeingthattheyneverwere?Orwasthatonlypossiblewhichcametopass?Weave,weaverofthewind.

           —Tellusastory,sir.

           —O,do,sir.Aghoststory.

           —Wheredoyoubegininthis?Stephenasked,openinganotherbook.

           —Weepnomore,Comynsaid.

           —Goonthen,Talbot.

           —Andthestory,sir?

           —After,Stephensaid.Goon,Talbot.

           Aswarthyboyopenedabookandproppeditnimblyunderthebreastworkofhissatchel.