—­For old Mary Ann
    she doesn’t care A damn. 
    But, hising up her petticoats ...

He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned.

The doorway was darkened by an entering form.

—­The milk, sir!

—­Come in, ma’am, Mulligan said.  Kinch, get the jug.

An old woman came forward and stood by Stephen’s elbow.

—­That’s a lovely morning, sir, she said.  Glory be to God.

—­To whom?  Mulligan said, glancing at her.  Ah, to be sure!

Stephen reached back and took the milkjug from the locker.

—­The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently of the collector of prepuces.

—­How much, sir? asked the old woman.

—­A quart, Stephen said.

He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich white milk, not hers.  Old shrunken paps.  She poured again a measureful and a tilly.  Old and secret she had entered from a morning world, maybe a messenger.  She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out.  Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch on her toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs.  They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle.  Silk of the kine and poor old woman, names given her in old times.  A wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning.  To serve or to upbraid, whether he could not tell:  but scorned to beg her favour.

—­It is indeed, ma’am, Buck Mulligan said, pouring milk into their cups.

—­Taste it, sir, she said.

He drank at her bidding.

—­If we could live on good food like that, he said to her somewhat loudly, we wouldn’t have the country full of rotten teeth and rotten guts.  Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives’ spits.

—­Are you a medical student, sir? the old woman asked.

—­I am, ma’am, Buck Mulligan answered.

—­Look at that now, she said.

Stephen listened in scornful silence.  She bows her old head to a voice that speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman:  me she slights.  To the voice that will shrive and oil for the grave all there is of her but her woman’s unclean loins, of man’s flesh made not in God’s likeness, the serpent’s prey.  And to the loud voice that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes.

—­Do you understand what he says?  Stephen asked her.

—­Is it French you are talking, sir? the old woman said to Haines.

Haines spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently.

—­Irish, Buck Mulligan said.  Is there Gaelic on you?

—­I thought it was Irish, she said, by the sound of it.  Are you from the west, sir?