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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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- Стр. 147/821
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—
Bloom
,
he
said
,
Madame
Marion
Tweedy
that
was
,
is
,
I
mean
,
the
soprano
.
She
’
s
his
wife
.
—
O
,
to
be
sure
,
John
Henry
Menton
said
.
I
haven
’
t
seen
her
for
some
time
.
She
was
a
finelooking
woman
.
I
danced
with
her
,
wait
,
fifteen
seventeen
golden
years
ago
,
at
Mat
Dillon
’
s
in
Roundtown
.
And
a
good
armful
she
was
.
He
looked
behind
through
the
others
.
—
What
is
he
?
he
asked
.
What
does
he
do
?
Wasn
’
t
he
in
the
stationery
line
?
I
fell
foul
of
him
one
evening
,
I
remember
,
at
bowls
.
Ned
Lambert
smiled
.
—
Yes
,
he
was
,
he
said
,
in
Wisdom
Hely
’
s
.
A
traveller
for
blottingpaper
.
—
In
God
’
s
name
,
John
Henry
Menton
said
,
what
did
she
marry
a
coon
like
that
for
?
She
had
plenty
of
game
in
her
then
.
—
Has
still
,
Ned
Lambert
said
.
He
does
some
canvassing
for
ads
.
John
Henry
Menton
’
s
large
eyes
stared
ahead
.
The
barrow
turned
into
a
side
lane
.
A
portly
man
,
ambushed
among
the
grasses
,
raised
his
hat
in
homage
.
The
gravediggers
touched
their
caps
.
