―Respect! he said. Is it for Billy with the lip or for the tub of guts up in Armagh? Respect!
―Princes of the church, said Mr. Casey with slow scorn.
―Lord Leitrim’s coachman, yes, said Mr. Dedalus.
―They are the Lord’s anointed, Dante said. They are an honour to their country.
―Tub of guts, said Mr. Dedalus coarsely. He has a handsome face, mind you, in repose. You should see that fellow lapping up his bacon and cabbage of a cold winter’s day. O Johnny!
He twisted his features into a grimace of heavy bestiality and made a lapping noise with his lips.
―Really, Simon, you should not speak that way before Stephen. It’s not right.
―O, he’ll remember all this when he grows up, said Dante hotly—the language he heard against God and religion and priests in his own home.
―Let him remember too, cried Mr. Casey to her from across the table, the language with which the priests and the priests’ pawns broke Parnell’s heart and hounded him into his grave. Let him remember that too when he grows up.
―Sons of bitches! cried Mr. Dedalus. When he was down they turned on him to betray him and rend him like rats in a sewer. Lowlived dogs! And they look it! By Christ, they look it!
―They behaved rightly, cried Dante. They obeyed their bishops and their priests. Honour to them!