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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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- Стр. 341/821
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Lenehan
linked
his
arm
warmly
.
—
But
wait
till
I
tell
you
,
he
said
.
We
had
a
midnight
lunch
too
after
all
the
jollification
and
when
we
sallied
forth
it
was
blue
o
’
clock
the
morning
after
the
night
before
.
Coming
home
it
was
a
gorgeous
winter
’
s
night
on
the
Featherbed
Mountain
.
Bloom
and
Chris
Callinan
were
on
one
side
of
the
car
and
I
was
with
the
wife
on
the
other
.
We
started
singing
glees
and
duets
:
Lo
,
the
early
beam
of
morning
.
She
was
well
primed
with
a
good
load
of
Delahunt
’
s
port
under
her
bellyband
.
Every
jolt
the
bloody
car
gave
I
had
her
bumping
up
against
me
.
Hell
’
s
delights
!
She
has
a
fine
pair
,
God
bless
her
.
Like
that
.
He
held
his
caved
hands
a
cubit
from
him
,
frowning
:
—
I
was
tucking
the
rug
under
her
and
settling
her
boa
all
the
time
.
Know
what
I
mean
?
His
hands
moulded
ample
curves
of
air
.
He
shut
his
eyes
tight
in
delight
,
his
body
shrinking
,
and
blew
a
sweet
chirp
from
his
lips
.
—
The
lad
stood
to
attention
anyhow
,
he
said
with
a
sigh
.
She
’
s
a
gamey
mare
and
no
mistake
.
Bloom
was
pointing
out
all
the
stars
and
the
comets
in
the
heavens
to
Chris
Callinan
and
the
jarvey
:
the
great
bear
and
Hercules
and
the
dragon
,
and
the
whole
jingbang
lot
.
But
,
by
God
,
I
was
lost
,
so
to
speak
,
in
the
milky
way
.
He
knows
them
all
,
faith
.
At
last
she
spotted
a
weeny
weeshy
one
miles
away
.
And
what
star
is
that
,
Poldy
?
says
she
.
By
God
,
she
had
Bloom
cornered
.
That
one
,
is
it
?
says
Chris
Callinan
,
sure
that
’
s
only
what
you
might
call
a
pinprick
.
By
God
,
he
wasn
’
t
far
wide
of
the
mark
.
Lenehan
stopped
and
leaned
on
the
riverwall
,
panting
with
soft
laughter
.
—
I
’
m
weak
,
he
gasped
.
M
’
Coy
’
s
white
face
smiled
about
it
at
instants
and
grew
grave
.
Lenehan
walked
on
again
.
He
lifted
his
yachtingcap
and
scratched
his
hindhead
rapidly
.
He
glanced
sideways
in
the
sunlight
at
M
’
Coy
.
—
He
’
s
a
cultured
allroundman
,
Bloom
is
,
he
said
seriously
.
He
’
s
not
one
of
your
common
or
garden
.
.
.
you
know
.
.
.
There
’
s
a
touch
of
the
artist
about
old
Bloom
.
