—This is real Irish cream I take it, he said with forbearance. I don’t want to be imposed on.
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#Ulysse 4742
12 février, par Guillaume Vissac -
#Ulysse 4741
11 février, par Guillaume VissacHe tasted a spoonful from the creamy cone of his cup.
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#Ulysse 4740
10 février, par Guillaume Vissac—Seems a long way off, Haines said, thoughtfully lifting his spoon. Still, I shouldn’t wonder if he did after all.
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#Ulysse 4739
9 février, par Guillaume Vissac—Ten years, he said, chewing and laughing. He is going to write something in ten years.
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#Ulysse 4738
8 février, par Guillaume VissacBuck Mulligan slit a steaming scone in two and plastered butter over its smoking pith. He bit off a soft piece hungrily.
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#Ulysse 4737
7 février, par Guillaume VissacHe sank two lumps of sugar deftly longwise through the whipped cream.
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#Ulysse 4736
6 février, par Guillaume Vissac—He can find no trace of hell in ancient Irish myth, Haines said, amid the cheerful cups. The moral idea seems lacking, the sense of destiny, of retribution. Rather strange he should have just that fixed idea. Does he write anything for your movement ?
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#Ulysse 4735
5 février, par Guillaume VissacBuck Mulligan’s watchful eyes saw the waitress come. He helped her to unload her tray.
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#Ulysse 4734
4 février, par Guillaume Vissac—Eternal punishment, Haines said, nodding curtly. I see. I tackled him this morning on belief. There was something on his mind, I saw. It’s rather interesting because professor Pokorny of Vienna makes an interesting point out of that.
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#Ulysse 4733
3 février, par Guillaume Vissac—They drove his wits astray, he said, by visions of hell. He will never capture the Attic note. The note of Swinburne, of all poets, the white death and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy. He can never be a poet. The joy of creation ....