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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 228/821
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He
walked
on
past
Bolton
’
s
Westmoreland
house
.
Tea
.
Tea
.
Tea
.
I
forgot
to
tap
Tom
Kernan
.
Sss
.
Dth
,
dth
,
dth
!
Three
days
imagine
groaning
on
a
bed
with
a
vinegared
handkerchief
round
her
forehead
,
her
belly
swollen
out
.
Phew
!
Dreadful
simply
!
Child
’
s
head
too
big
:
forceps
.
Doubled
up
inside
her
trying
to
butt
its
way
out
blindly
,
groping
for
the
way
out
.
Kill
me
that
would
.
Lucky
Molly
got
over
hers
lightly
.
They
ought
to
invent
something
to
stop
that
.
Life
with
hard
labour
.
Twilight
sleep
idea
:
queen
Victoria
was
given
that
.
Nine
she
had
.
A
good
layer
.
Old
woman
that
lived
in
a
shoe
she
had
so
many
children
.
Suppose
he
was
consumptive
.
Time
someone
thought
about
it
instead
of
gassing
about
the
what
was
it
the
pensive
bosom
of
the
silver
effulgence
.
Flapdoodle
to
feed
fools
on
.
They
could
easily
have
big
establishments
whole
thing
quite
painless
out
of
all
the
taxes
give
every
child
born
five
quid
at
compound
interest
up
to
twentyone
five
per
cent
is
a
hundred
shillings
and
five
tiresome
pounds
multiply
by
twenty
decimal
system
encourage
people
to
put
by
money
save
hundred
and
ten
and
a
bit
twentyone
years
want
to
work
it
out
on
paper
come
to
a
tidy
sum
more
than
you
think
.
Not
stillborn
of
course
.
They
are
not
even
registered
.
Trouble
for
nothing
.
Funny
sight
two
of
them
together
,
their
bellies
out
.
Molly
and
Mrs
Moisel
.
Mothers
’
meeting
.
Phthisis
retires
for
the
time
being
,
then
returns
.
How
flat
they
look
all
of
a
sudden
after
.
Peaceful
eyes
.
Weight
off
their
mind
.
Old
Mrs
Thornton
was
a
jolly
old
soul
.
All
my
babies
,
she
said
.
The
spoon
of
pap
in
her
mouth
before
she
fed
them
.
O
,
that
’
s
nyumnyum
.
Got
her
hand
crushed
by
old
Tom
Wall
’
s
son
.
His
first
bow
to
the
public
.
Head
like
a
prize
pumpkin
.
Snuffy
Dr
Murren
.
People
knocking
them
up
at
all
hours
.
For
God
’
sake
,
doctor
.
Wife
in
her
throes
.
Then
keep
them
waiting
months
for
their
fee
.
To
attendance
on
your
wife
.
No
gratitude
in
people
.
Humane
doctors
,
most
of
them
.
Before
the
huge
high
door
of
the
Irish
house
of
parliament
a
flock
of
pigeons
flew
.
Their
little
frolic
after
meals
.
Who
will
we
do
it
on
?
I
pick
the
fellow
in
black
.
Here
goes
.
Here
’
s
good
luck
.
Must
be
thrilling
from
the
air
.
Apjohn
,
myself
and
Owen
Goldberg
up
in
the
trees
near
Goose
green
playing
the
monkeys
.
Mackerel
they
called
me
.
A
squad
of
constables
debouched
from
College
street
,
marching
in
Indian
file
.
Goosestep
.
Foodheated
faces
,
sweating
helmets
,
patting
their
truncheons
.
After
their
feed
with
a
good
load
of
fat
soup
under
their
belts
.
Policeman
’
s
lot
is
oft
a
happy
one
.
They
split
up
in
groups
and
scattered
,
saluting
,
towards
their
beats
.
Let
out
to
graze
.
Best
moment
to
attack
one
in
pudding
time
.
A
punch
in
his
dinner
.
A
squad
of
others
,
marching
irregularly
,
rounded
Trinity
railings
making
for
the
station
.
Bound
for
their
troughs
.
Prepare
to
receive
cavalry
.
Prepare
to
receive
soup
.
He
crossed
under
Tommy
Moore
’
s
roguish
finger
.
They
did
right
to
put
him
up
over
a
urinal
:
meeting
of
the
waters
.
Ought
to
be
places
for
women
.
Running
into
cakeshops
.
Settle
my
hat
straight
.
There
is
not
in
this
wide
world
a
vallee
.
Great
song
of
Julia
Morkan
’
s
.
Kept
her
voice
up
to
the
very
last
.
Pupil
of
Michael
Balfe
’
s
,
wasn
’
t
she
?
He
gazed
after
the
last
broad
tunic
.
Nasty
customers
to
tackle
.
Jack
Power
could
a
tale
unfold
:
father
a
G
man
.
If
a
fellow
gave
them
trouble
being
lagged
they
let
him
have
it
hot
and
heavy
in
the
bridewell
.
