Улисс

           HeturnedabruptlyhisgreysearchingeyesfromtheseatoStephen’sface.

           —Theauntthinksyoukilledyourmother,hesaid.That’swhyshewon’tletmehaveanythingtodowithyou.

           —Someonekilledher,Stephensaidgloomily.

           —Youcouldhavekneltdown,damnit,Kinch,whenyourdyingmotheraskedyou,BuckMulligansaid.I’mhyperboreanasmuchasyou.Buttothinkofyourmotherbeggingyouwithherlastbreathtokneeldownandprayforher.Andyourefused.Thereissomethingsinisterinyou....

           Hebrokeoffandlatheredagainlightlyhisfarthercheek.Atolerantsmilecurledhislips.

           —Butalovelymummer!hemurmuredtohimself.Kinch,theloveliestmummerofthemall!

           Heshavedevenlyandwithcare,insilence,seriously.

           Stephen,anelbowrestedonthejaggedgranite,leanedhispalmagainsthisbrowandgazedatthefrayingedgeofhisshinyblackcoat-sleeve.Pain,thatwasnotyetthepainoflove,frettedhisheart.Silently,inadreamshehadcometohimafterherdeath,herwastedbodywithinitsloosebrowngraveclothesgivingoffanodourofwaxandrosewood,herbreath,thathadbentuponhim,mute,reproachful,afaintodourofwettedashes.Acrossthethreadbarecuffedgehesawtheseahailedasagreatsweetmotherbythewellfedvoicebesidehim.Theringofbayandskylineheldadullgreenmassofliquid.Abowlofwhitechinahadstoodbesideherdeathbedholdingthegreensluggishbilewhichshehadtornupfromherrottingliverbyfitsofloudgroaningvomiting.

           BuckMulliganwipedagainhisrazorblade.

           —Ah,poordogsbody!hesaidinakindvoice.