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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 8/821
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Parried
again
.
He
fears
the
lancet
of
my
art
as
I
fear
that
of
his
.
The
cold
steel
pen
.
—
Cracked
lookingglass
of
a
servant
!
Tell
that
to
the
oxy
chap
downstairs
and
touch
him
for
a
guinea
.
He
’
s
stinking
with
money
and
thinks
you
’
re
not
a
gentleman
.
His
old
fellow
made
his
tin
by
selling
jalap
to
Zulus
or
some
bloody
swindle
or
other
.
God
,
Kinch
,
if
you
and
I
could
only
work
together
we
might
do
something
for
the
island
.
Hellenise
it
.
Cranly
’
s
arm
.
His
arm
.
—
And
to
think
of
your
having
to
beg
from
these
swine
.
I
’
m
the
only
one
that
knows
what
you
are
.
Why
don
’
t
you
trust
me
more
?
What
have
you
up
your
nose
against
me
?
Is
it
Haines
?
If
he
makes
any
noise
here
I
’
ll
bring
down
Seymour
and
we
’
ll
give
him
a
ragging
worse
than
they
gave
Clive
Kempthorpe
.
Young
shouts
of
moneyed
voices
in
Clive
Kempthorpe
’
s
rooms
.
Palefaces
:
they
hold
their
ribs
with
laughter
,
one
clasping
another
.
O
,
I
shall
expire
!
Break
the
news
to
her
gently
,
Aubrey
!
I
shall
die
!
With
slit
ribbons
of
his
shirt
whipping
the
air
he
hops
and
hobbles
round
the
table
,
with
trousers
down
at
heels
,
chased
by
Ades
of
Magdalen
with
the
tailor
’
s
shears
.
A
scared
calf
’
s
face
gilded
with
marmalade
.
I
don
’
t
want
to
be
debagged
!
Don
’
t
you
play
the
giddy
ox
with
me
!
Shouts
from
the
open
window
startling
evening
in
the
quadrangle
.
A
deaf
gardener
,
aproned
,
masked
with
Matthew
Arnold
’
s
face
,
pushes
his
mower
on
the
sombre
lawn
watching
narrowly
the
dancing
motes
of
grasshalms
.
To
ourselves
.
.
.
new
paganism
.
.
.
omphalos
.
—
Let
him
stay
,
Stephen
said
.
There
’
s
nothing
wrong
with
him
except
at
night
.
—
Then
what
is
it
?
Buck
Mulligan
asked
impatiently
.
Cough
it
up
.
I
’
m
quite
frank
with
you
.
What
have
you
against
me
now
?
