thick carpet Buck Mulligan whispered behind his Panama to Haines.
―Parnell’s brother. There in the corner.
They chose a small table near the window opposite a longfaced man whose beard and gaze hung intently down on a chessboard.
―Is that he? Haines asked, twisting round in his seat.
―Yes, Mulligan said. That’s John Howard, his brother, our city marshal.
John Howard Parnell translated a white bishop quietly and his grey claw went up again to his forehead whereat it rested.
An instant after, under its screen, his eyes looked quickly, ghostbright, at his foe and fell once more upon a working corner.
―I’ll take a mélange , Haines said to the waitress.