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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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- Стр. 97/821
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City
.
Answered
anyhow
.
He
slipped
card
and
letter
into
his
sidepocket
,
reviewing
again
the
soldiers
on
parade
.
Where
’
s
old
Tweedy
’
s
regiment
?
Castoff
soldier
.
There
:
bearskin
cap
and
hackle
plume
.
No
,
he
’
s
a
grenadier
.
Pointed
cuffs
.
There
he
is
:
royal
Dublin
fusiliers
.
Redcoats
.
Too
showy
.
That
must
be
why
the
women
go
after
them
.
Uniform
.
Easier
to
enlist
and
drill
.
Maud
Gonne
’
s
letter
about
taking
them
off
O
’
Connell
street
at
night
:
disgrace
to
our
Irish
capital
.
Griffith
’
s
paper
is
on
the
same
tack
now
:
an
army
rotten
with
venereal
disease
:
overseas
or
halfseasover
empire
.
Half
baked
they
look
:
hypnotised
like
.
Eyes
front
.
Mark
time
.
Table
:
able
.
Bed
:
ed
.
The
King
’
s
own
.
Never
see
him
dressed
up
as
a
fireman
or
a
bobby
.
A
mason
,
yes
.
He
strolled
out
of
the
postoffice
and
turned
to
the
right
.
Talk
:
as
if
that
would
mend
matters
.
His
hand
went
into
his
pocket
and
a
forefinger
felt
its
way
under
the
flap
of
the
envelope
,
ripping
it
open
in
jerks
.
Women
will
pay
a
lot
of
heed
,
I
don
’
t
think
.
His
fingers
drew
forth
the
letter
the
letter
and
crumpled
the
envelope
in
his
pocket
.
Something
pinned
on
:
photo
perhaps
.
Hair
?
No
.
M
’
Coy
.
Get
rid
of
him
quickly
.
Take
me
out
of
my
way
.
Hate
company
when
you
.
—
Hello
,
Bloom
.
Where
are
you
off
to
?
—
Hello
,
M
’
Coy
.
Nowhere
in
particular
.
—
How
’
s
the
body
?
—
Fine
.
How
are
you
?
—
Just
keeping
alive
,
M
’
Coy
said
.
