"Well, what's the matter?" Buck Mulligan answered. I don't remember any of it. He studied Stephen's face as he spoke. The breeze brushed his forehead and brushed his uncombed blond hair, making the silver of anxiety sway in his eyes. Stephen said, frustrated by his voice: "Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother died?" Buck Mulligan immediately frowned and said: "What?"? Where ? I can't remember anything. I only remember ideas and feelings [36]. Why do you ask that? Oh my God What the hell happened? "You're making tea," Stephen said. "I went across the landing to get more water. Your mother and a guest came out of the living room. She asked you who was in your room. "Why?" Said Buck Mulligan. What did I say to see? I forgot. 。” 'So You say, 'Stephen replied.' Oh, it's only Dedalus. His mother died like a beast. ' Buck Mulligan's cheeks were suddenly flushed, making him look younger and more attractive. "Is that what I said?" He asked. Ah? What's the matter with that? He shook himself nervously out of his discomfiture. What is death? "He asked." Your mother, or you, or myself. You only saw your mother's death. I was with the Virgin and Richmond, and every day I saw them die suddenly and be disemboweled in the autopsy room. It's the kind of thing that animals do, that's all. When your mother was dying, she asked you to kneel down and pray for her, and you refused. Why? Because you have the cursed Jesuit in you, but it's twisted on you. To me, it's a complete mockery. It happens to animals. Her brain lobe is out of order. She called the doctor Sir Peter Tiazer and pulled the buttercup flower off the quilt. Coax her until she dies. You refused to grant her one last wish, and you were angry with me because I refused to mourn like the undertaker paid by the Lalouette funeral home. Ridiculous! I must have said that. 。 But I didn't mean to hurt your mother's reputation after her death. The more he said,shuttle rack system, the more justified he was. Stephen covered up the wound left on his heart by these words and said with great indifference: "I'm not thinking about the damage you did to my mother." "And what do you think?" Asked Buck Mulligan. To my detriment, answered Stephen. Buck Mulligan twirled on his heel. "Oh, you're a piece of work!" He exclaimed. He walked quickly away along the parapet. Stephen remained where he was, looking across the calm sea towards the headland. The sea and the promontory were now dimly mingled. The pulse of his eyes was beating, his vision was blurred, and he felt his cheeks burning. From the tower came a loud cry: "Mulligan, are you up there?" "I'm coming," Buck Mulligan answered. He turned to Stephen and said: Look at the sea. What damage does it care about? With Loyola [39] Break up, Teardrop Pallet Racking ,heavy duty metal racks, Kinch. Come on down. The Saxon conqueror had fried ham for breakfast. His head stopped again at the top of the ladder, so that it was just in line with the top of the tower. Don't mope about it all day. I am a person who has no match. Don't think so hard any more. His head disappeared, but from the top of the stairs came the murmur of his descent: Don't turn your face away from worry, In the bitter mystery of love, Because the brass car was driven by Fergus [41]. Through the stillness of the morning, the shadows of the woods drifted silently from the stairway to the sea he was looking at. On the shore and on the sea, the mirror-like water was white, as if it had been kicked up by a foot running on a light shoe. The snow-white bosom of the hazy sea. Heavy syllables blend together in pairs. One hand strummed the harp, and the strings were interlaced to produce a homophonic sound. A pair of white waves flashed on the dark tide. A cloud began slowly to cover the whole sun, and the bay became more and more green in the shadow. The bowl of bitter water lay at his feet. The Fergus Song, I sang alone at home, suppressing the long, gloomy chords. Her door was open, and she longed to hear my song. With fear and pity, I crept up to her bedside. She wept in the humble bed. For this, Stephen, the bitter mystery of love. Where is it now? Her secret stash: In her locked drawer were several old feather fans, musky tasseled ball invitations, and a string of cheap amber beads. When she was a girl, there was a birdcage hanging on the sunny window of her house. She had heard old Royce sing in the pantomime "Dick the Terrible," and she laughed with the others when he sang that: I'm the boy. Be able to enjoy whatever you want. The pleasure of invisibility. The phantom joy was stored up, smoked with musk. Don't turn your face to worry again. With her little toys, she was stored in the memory of nature. Past events, like smoke, came into his depressed mind. When she received the Eucharist, her glass of cold water came from the kitchen hose. An apple, cored and filled with brown sugar, was baking for her on the hob on a dark autumn evening. Her beautiful fingernails were stained with blood from picking lice off the children's shirts. In a dream, she came to him quietly. Her withered body,wire mesh decking, wrapped in loose clothes, gave off the smell of wax and rosewood. She leaned over him and whispered to him, her breath a faint smell of wet ash. jracking.com