was, one imagines, a kinswoman of Mary Ann.
Buck Mulligan’s face smiled with delight.
―Charming, he said in a finical sweet voice, showing his white teeth and blinking his eyes pleasantly. Do you think she was? Quite charming.
Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he growled in a hoarsened rasping voice as he hewed again vigorously at the loaf:
―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