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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 5/821
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He
turned
abruptly
his
grey
searching
eyes
from
the
sea
to
Stephen
’
s
face
.
—
The
aunt
thinks
you
killed
your
mother
,
he
said
.
That
’
s
why
she
won
’
t
let
me
have
anything
to
do
with
you
.
—
Someone
killed
her
,
Stephen
said
gloomily
.
—
You
could
have
knelt
down
,
damn
it
,
Kinch
,
when
your
dying
mother
asked
you
,
Buck
Mulligan
said
.
I
’
m
hyperborean
as
much
as
you
.
But
to
think
of
your
mother
begging
you
with
her
last
breath
to
kneel
down
and
pray
for
her
.
And
you
refused
.
There
is
something
sinister
in
you
.
.
.
.
He
broke
off
and
lathered
again
lightly
his
farther
cheek
.
A
tolerant
smile
curled
his
lips
.
—
But
a
lovely
mummer
!
he
murmured
to
himself
.
Kinch
,
the
loveliest
mummer
of
them
all
!
He
shaved
evenly
and
with
care
,
in
silence
,
seriously
.
Stephen
,
an
elbow
rested
on
the
jagged
granite
,
leaned
his
palm
against
his
brow
and
gazed
at
the
fraying
edge
of
his
shiny
black
coat
-
sleeve
.
Pain
,
that
was
not
yet
the
pain
of
love
,
fretted
his
heart
.
Silently
,
in
a
dream
she
had
come
to
him
after
her
death
,
her
wasted
body
within
its
loose
brown
graveclothes
giving
off
an
odour
of
wax
and
rosewood
,
her
breath
,
that
had
bent
upon
him
,
mute
,
reproachful
,
a
faint
odour
of
wetted
ashes
.
Across
the
threadbare
cuffedge
he
saw
the
sea
hailed
as
a
great
sweet
mother
by
the
wellfed
voice
beside
him
.
The
ring
of
bay
and
skyline
held
a
dull
green
mass
of
liquid
.
A
bowl
of
white
china
had
stood
beside
her
deathbed
holding
the
green
sluggish
bile
which
she
had
torn
up
from
her
rotting
liver
by
fits
of
loud
groaning
vomiting
.
Buck
Mulligan
wiped
again
his
razorblade
.
—
Ah
,
poor
dogsbody
!
he
said
in
a
kind
voice
.
