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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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—
What
are
you
singing
?
—
Là
ci
darem
with
J
.
C
.
Doyle
,
she
said
,
and
Love
’
s
Old
Sweet
Song
.
Her
full
lips
,
drinking
,
smiled
.
Rather
stale
smell
that
incense
leaves
next
day
.
Like
foul
flowerwater
.
—
Would
you
like
the
window
open
a
little
?
She
doubled
a
slice
of
bread
into
her
mouth
,
asking
:
—
What
time
is
the
funeral
?
—
Eleven
,
I
think
,
he
answered
.
I
didn
’
t
see
the
paper
.
Following
the
pointing
of
her
finger
he
took
up
a
leg
of
her
soiled
drawers
from
the
bed
.
No
?
Then
,
a
twisted
grey
garter
looped
round
a
stocking
:
rumpled
,
shiny
sole
.
—
No
:
that
book
.
Other
stocking
.
Her
petticoat
.
