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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 79/821
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His
hand
took
his
hat
from
the
peg
over
his
initialled
heavy
overcoat
and
his
lost
property
office
secondhand
waterproof
.
Stamps
:
stickyback
pictures
.
Daresay
lots
of
officers
are
in
the
swim
too
.
Course
they
do
.
The
sweated
legend
in
the
crown
of
his
hat
told
him
mutely
:
Plasto
’
s
high
grade
ha
.
He
peeped
quickly
inside
the
leather
headband
.
White
slip
of
paper
.
Quite
safe
.
On
the
doorstep
he
felt
in
his
hip
pocket
for
the
latchkey
.
Not
there
.
In
the
trousers
I
left
off
.
Must
get
it
.
Potato
I
have
.
Creaky
wardrobe
.
No
use
disturbing
her
.
She
turned
over
sleepily
that
time
.
He
pulled
the
halldoor
to
after
him
very
quietly
,
more
,
till
the
footleaf
dropped
gently
over
the
threshold
,
a
limp
lid
.
Looked
shut
.
All
right
till
I
come
back
anyhow
.
He
crossed
to
the
bright
side
,
avoiding
the
loose
cellarflap
of
number
seventyfive
.
The
sun
was
nearing
the
steeple
of
George
’
s
church
.
Be
a
warm
day
I
fancy
.
Specially
in
these
black
clothes
feel
it
more
.
Black
conducts
,
reflects
,
(
refracts
is
it
?
)
,
the
heat
.
But
I
couldn
’
t
go
in
that
light
suit
.
Make
a
picnic
of
it
.
His
eyelids
sank
quietly
often
as
he
walked
in
happy
warmth
.
Boland
’
s
breadvan
delivering
with
trays
our
daily
but
she
prefers
yesterday
’
s
loaves
turnovers
crisp
crowns
hot
.
Makes
you
feel
young
.
Somewhere
in
the
east
:
early
morning
:
set
off
at
dawn
.
Travel
round
in
front
of
the
sun
,
steal
a
day
’
s
march
on
him
.
Keep
it
up
for
ever
never
grow
a
day
older
technically
.
Walk
along
a
strand
,
strange
land
,
come
to
a
city
gate
,
sentry
there
,
old
ranker
too
,
old
Tweedy
’
s
big
moustaches
,
leaning
on
a
long
kind
of
a
spear
.
Wander
through
awned
streets
.
Turbaned
faces
going
by
.
Dark
caves
of
carpet
shops
,
big
man
,
Turko
the
terrible
,
seated
crosslegged
,
smoking
a
coiled
pipe
.
Cries
of
sellers
in
the
streets
.
Drink
water
scented
with
fennel
,
sherbet
.
Dander
along
all
day
.
Might
meet
a
robber
or
two
.
Well
,
meet
him
.
Getting
on
to
sundown
.
The
shadows
of
the
mosques
among
the
pillars
:
priest
with
a
scroll
rolled
up
.
A
shiver
of
the
trees
,
signal
,
the
evening
wind
.
I
pass
on
.
Fading
gold
sky
.
A
mother
watches
me
from
her
doorway
.
She
calls
her
children
home
in
their
dark
language
.
High
wall
:
beyond
strings
twanged
.
Night
sky
,
moon
,
violet
,
colour
of
Molly
’
s
new
garters
.
Strings
.
Listen
.
A
girl
playing
one
of
those
instruments
what
do
you
call
them
:
dulcimers
.
I
pass
.
Probably
not
a
bit
like
it
really
.
Kind
of
stuff
you
read
:
in
the
track
of
the
sun
.
Sunburst
on
the
titlepage
.
He
smiled
,
pleasing
himself
.
What
Arthur
Griffith
said
about
the
headpiece
over
the
Freeman
leader
:
a
homerule
sun
rising
up
in
the
northwest
from
the
laneway
behind
the
bank
of
Ireland
.
He
prolonged
his
pleased
smile
.
Ikey
touch
that
:
homerule
sun
rising
up
in
the
northwest
.
He
approached
Larry
O
’
Rourke
’
s
.
From
the
cellar
grating
floated
up
the
flabby
gush
of
porter
.
Through
the
open
doorway
the
bar
squirted
out
whiffs
of
ginger
,
teadust
,
biscuitmush
.
Good
house
,
however
:
just
the
end
of
the
city
traffic
.
For
instance
M
’
Auley
’
s
down
there
:
n
.
g
.
as
position
.
Of
course
if
they
ran
a
tramline
along
the
North
Circular
from
the
cattlemarket
to
the
quays
value
would
go
up
like
a
shot
.
Baldhead
over
the
blind
.
Cute
old
codger
.
No
use
canvassing
him
for
an
ad
.
Still
he
knows
his
own
business
best
.
There
he
is
,
sure
enough
,
my
bold
Larry
,
leaning
against
the
sugarbin
in
his
shirtsleeves
watching
the
aproned
curate
swab
up
with
mop
and
bucket
.
Simon
Dedalus
takes
him
off
to
a
tee
with
his
eyes
screwed
up
.
Do
you
know
what
I
’
m
going
to
tell
you
?
What
’
s
that
,
Mr
O
’
Rourke
?
Do
you
know
what
?
The
Russians
,
they
’
d
only
be
an
eight
o
’
clock
breakfast
for
the
Japanese
.
Stop
and
say
a
word
:
about
the
funeral
perhaps
.
Sad
thing
about
poor
Dignam
,
Mr
O
’
Rourke
.
Turning
into
Dorset
street
he
said
freshly
in
greeting
through
the
doorway
:
