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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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- Стр. 241/821
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His
midriff
yearned
then
upward
,
sank
within
him
,
yearned
more
longly
,
longingly
.
Wine
.
He
smellsipped
the
cordial
juice
and
,
bidding
his
throat
strongly
to
speed
it
,
set
his
wineglass
delicately
down
.
—
Yes
,
he
said
.
He
’
s
the
organiser
in
point
of
fact
.
No
fear
:
no
brains
.
Nosey
Flynn
snuffled
and
scratched
.
Flea
having
a
good
square
meal
.
—
He
had
a
good
slice
of
luck
,
Jack
Mooney
was
telling
me
,
over
that
boxingmatch
Myler
Keogh
won
again
that
soldier
in
the
Portobello
barracks
.
By
God
,
he
had
the
little
kipper
down
in
the
county
Carlow
he
was
telling
me
.
.
.
Hope
that
dewdrop
doesn
’
t
come
down
into
his
glass
.
No
,
snuffled
it
up
.
—
For
near
a
month
,
man
,
before
it
came
off
.
Sucking
duck
eggs
by
God
till
further
orders
.
Keep
him
off
the
boose
,
see
?
O
,
by
God
,
Blazes
is
a
hairy
chap
.
Davy
Byrne
came
forward
from
the
hindbar
in
tuckstitched
shirtsleeves
,
cleaning
his
lips
with
two
wipes
of
his
napkin
.
Herring
’
s
blush
.
Whose
smile
upon
each
feature
plays
with
such
and
such
replete
.
Too
much
fat
on
the
parsnips
.
