Fair Copy

Manuscript, October 1918, draft level 2

MS Rosenbach Museum Draft details

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Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. A lem sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a christian brother. Some school treat. Lozenge and comfit manufacturer to His Majesty the King. God. Save. Our. Sitting on his throne sucking jujubes.

A sombre young man, watchful among the warm sweet fumes of Graham Lemon's placed a throwaway in the hand of Mr Bloom.

Heart to heart talks.

Bloo …. Me? No.

Blood of the Lamb.

His slow feet walked him riverward, reading. All are washed in the blood of the lamb. Elijah is coming. Dr John Alexander Dowie, restorer of the church in Zion, is coming. Is coming. Is coming. Is coming.

All heartily welcome.

Paying game. Where was that ad some Birminghamº firm the luminous crucifix. Our Saviour. Wake up in the dead of night and see it on the wall, hanging. Pepper's ghost idea. Iron Nails Ran In.

Phosphorus it must be done with. If you leave a bit of codfish for instance. I could see the bluey silver over it. Night I went down to the pantry in the kitchen. What was it she wanted? The Malaga raisins. Before Rudy was born. The phosphorescence, that bluey greeny. Very good for the brain.

From |2blank Butler's monument house2| corner he glanced along Bachelor's walk. Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. Must be selling off some old furniture. Knew her eyes at once from the brother. Lobbing about waiting for the father. Home always breaks up when the mother goes: Fifteen children he had. Birth every year almost. That's in their theology or the priest won't give the poor woman
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the confession, the absolution. |2Increase and multiply.2| Did you ever hear such an idea? No families themselves to |2keep feed2|. Living on the fat of the land. A housekeeper of one of those fellows if you could pick it out of her. Never pick it out of her: unread his reverence: mum's the word.

Good Lord, that poor child's dress is in flitters. Underfed she looks too. It's after they feel it. Undermines the constitution.

As he set foot on O'Connell bridge a puffball of smoke plumed up from the parapet. Brewery barge with export stout. England. Sea air sours it, I heard. Be interesting some day get a pass through Hitchcock to see the brewery. Regular town in itself. Vats of porter wonderful. Rats get in too. Drink themselves bloated as big as a collie floating. Dead drunk on the porter. |2Drink till they puke like christians.2| Imagine drinking that. |2Rats: vats.2| Well, of course, if we knew all the things.

Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the gaunt quaywalls|2, gulls2|. Rough weather outside. |2R.J's son must have swallowed a good bellyful of that sewage.2| They wheeled lower. Looking for grub. Wait.

He threw down among them a crumpled paper ball. Elijah |2thirtytwo feet per second2| is coming. Not a bit. The ball bobbed unheeded on the wake of swells, floated under by the bridgepiers. Not such damn fools. They wheeled, flapping.

The hungry famished gull
Flaps o'er the waters dull.

That is how poets write, the similar sounds. But then Shakespeare has no rhymes: blank verse. The flow of the language it is. The thoughts. Solemn

Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit
Doomed for a certain time to walk the earth

— Two apples a penny. Two for a penny.

His gaze passed over the glazed apples serried on her stand. Australians they must be this time of year. Shiny peels: polishes them up with a rag or a handkerchief.

Wait, those poor birds.

He halted and bought from the old applewoman two Banbury cakes for a penny and broke the brittle paste and threw its pieces down into the Liffey. See that? The gulls swooped silently, two, then all from their heights, pouncing on prey. Gone. Every morsel.
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Aware of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his hands. They never expected that. Manna. Live on fish, fishy flesh they have, all seabirds, gulls, seagoose. Robinson Crusoe had to live on them.

They wheeled flapping weakly. I'm not going to throw any more. Penny is quite enough. Lot of thanks I get. If you fatten a turkey say on chestnutmeal it tastes like that. But then why is it that saltwater fish are not salty? How is that?

His eyes sought answer on the river and saw a rowboat rock at anchor on the treacly swells lazily its plastered board.


Good idea that. Wonder if he pays rent to the corporation. How can you own water really? It's always flowing in a stream, never the same, which in the stream of life we trace. Because life is a stream. All kinds of places are good for ads. That quack doctor for the clap that used to be stuck up in all the greenhouses. Never see it now. Strictly confidential. Dr Hy Franks. Didn't cost him a cent. Got fellows to stick them up or stick them up himself for that matter on the q.t. running in to loosen a button. Just the place too.

If he ….?



No. ….. No.

No. no. I don't believe it. He wouldn't surely?

No, no.

Mr Bloom moved forward, raising his troubled eyes. Think no more about that. After one. The timeball on the ballast office is down. Dunsink time. Fascinating little book that is of sir Robert Ball's. Parallax. I never exactly understood. Par it's Greek: parallel parallax. Met him pike hoses she called him till sh I told her about the transmigration idea. O rocks!
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Mr Bloom smiled O rocks at two windows of the ballast office. She's right after all. They're only big words for ordinary things on account of the sound. She's not exactly witty. Still, I don't know. She used to say Ben Dollard had a base barreltone voice. He has legs like barrels and you'd think he was singing into a barrel. Now, isn't that wit. They used to call him big Ben. That's not half as witty as calling him base barreltone. |2Great Powerful2| man he was for stowing away number one Bass. Barrel of Bass. See? It all works out.

A procession of whitesmocked men marched slowly towards him along the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards. Bargains. Like that priest they are this morning: we have sinned: we have suffered. He read the scarlet letters on their five tall white hats. H.E.L.Y.S. |2Wisdom2| Hely's. Y lagging behind drew a chunk of bread from behind his foreboard, crammed it into his mouth and munched as he walked. Three bob a day, walking along the gutters, street after street. Just keep skin and bone together, bread and skilly. They are not Boyl: no, M'Glade's men. Doesn't bring in any business either. I suggested to him about a |2transparent2| showcart with two |2children2| girls sitting inside writing copybooks, envelopes, blottingpaper. I bet that would have caught on. Two smart young girls. Always catch the eye. Wouldn't have it of course because he didn't think of it himself first. Well out of that ruck I am. Devil of a job it was collecting accounts of those convents. Tranquilla convent. That was a nice nun there, really sweet face. Sister? Sister? I am sure she was crossed in love by her eyes. Very hard to bargain with that sort of a woman. I disturbed her at her devotions that morning. Our great day, she said. Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Sweet name too: caramel. She knew I, I think she knew by the way she. If she had married she would have changed. I suppose they really were short of money. Sister? |2And yet it was a nun invented barbed wire.2|

He crossed Westmoreland street when S had plodded by towards the Rover cycleshop. How long ago is that? Year Phil Gilligan died. We were in Lombard street west. Ten years ago: ninetyfour. Milly
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was a kiddy then. Molly had that elephant grey dress with the braided frogs on it. She didn't like it because I sprained my ankle first day she wore |2choir2| picnic on Killiney hill. As if that. Never put a dress on her back like it. Fitted her like a glove, shoulders and hips. Just beginning to plump it out well. Rabbit pie we had that day. People looking after her.

Happy. Happier then. Snug little room that was with the red wallpaper. Milly's tubbing night. American soap I bought: elderflower. Cosy smell of her bathwater. Funny she looked soaped all over. Shapely too.

He walked along the curbstone.

Stream of life. What was the name of that priestylooking chap was always squinting in when he passed? Stopping in Citron's saint Kevin's parade. Pen something. Pendennis? My memory is getting. Pen …?

Bartell d'Arcy was the tenor, just coming out then. Seeing her home after practice. Conceited fellow with his waxedup moustache. Gave her that song Winds that blow from the south.

Windy night that was I went to fetch her after Goodwin's concert in the supperroom of the Mansion house. He and I behind. Sheet of her music blew out of my hand against the high school railings. Lucky it didn't. Thing like that spoils effect of a night |2for her2|. Professor Goodwin linking her in front. Shaky on his pins, poor old sot. Remember her laughing at the |2wind. wind her blizzard collar up.2| Corner of Harcourt road remember that gust. Brrfoo! Blew up all her skirts and her boa nearly smothered old Goodwin. She did get flushed in the wind. Remember when we got home raking up the fire and frying up those pieces of lap of mutton for her with the Chutney sauce she liked. And the mulled rum. Could see her in the bedroom from the hearth unclasping her stays: white.

Swish and soft flop her stays made on the bed. Always warm from her. Always liked to let her self out. Sitting there after till near two taking out her hairpins. Milly tucked up in beddyhouse. Happy. Happy. That was the night …..
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— O, Mr Bloom, how do you do?

— O, how do you do, Mrs Breen?

— No use complaining. How is Molly those times? Haven't seen her for ages.

— In the pink, Mr Bloom said gaily. Milly's down in Mullingar, you know.

— Is that so?

— Yes. In a photographer's there. Getting on like a house on fire. How are all your charges?

— All on the baker's list, Mrs Breen said.

How many has she? No other in sight.
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|2You're in black, I see. You have no …?

— No, Mr Bloom said. I a have just come from a funeral.

Going to crop up all day, I foresee.

— O, dear me, Mrs Breen said. I hope it wasn't any near relative.

May as well get her sympathy.

— Dignam, Mr Bloom said. An old friend of mine. He died quite suddenly, poor fellow. Heart trouble, I believe. Funeral was this morning.

Your funeral's tomorrow
While you're coming through the rye.
Diddlediddle dumdum
Diddlediddle …

— Sad to lose the old friends, Mrs Breen's |abig eyes womaneyesa| said melancholily.

Now that's quite enough about that. Just: quietly: husband.2|
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— And your lord and master?

Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. Hasn't lost them anyhow.

— O, don't be talking! she said. He's a caution. He's in there now with his lawbooks finding out the law of libel. He has me heartscalded. Wait till I show you.

Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked jampuffs poured out from Harrison's. The heavy re noonreek tickled the top of Mr Bloom's gullet. A barefoot arab stood over the grating, breathing in the fumes. Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way.

Opening her handbag, chipped leather. |2Hatpin: ought to have a guard on those things. Stick it in a chap's eye in the tram.2| Rummaging. Soiled handkerchief. Medicine bottle. What is she..?

— There must be a new moon out, she said. He's always bad then. Do you know what he did last night?

Her hand ceased to rummage. Her eyes fixed themselves on him, wide in alarm, yet smiling.

— What? Mr Bloom asked.

Let her speak. Look straight in her eyes. I believe you. Trust me.

— Woke me up in the night, she said. Dream he had a nightmare.


— Said the ace of spades was walking up the stairs.

— The ace of spades! Mr Bloom said.

She took a folded postcard from her handbag.

— Read that, she said. He got it this morning.

— What is it? Mr Bloom asked, taking the card. U.P.?

— U.P: up, she said. Someone taking a rise out of him. It's a great shame for them whoever he is.

— Indeed it is, Mr Bloom said.

She took back the card, sighing.
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— And now he's going round to Mr Menton's office. He's going to take an action for ten thousand pounds, he says.

She folded the card back into her untidy bag and snapped the catch.

Same blue serge dress she had two years ago, the nap bleaching. |2Seen its best days.2| Wispish hair over her ears. And that dusty looking toque: three old cherries to take the harm out of it. She used to be a smart dresser. Lines round her mouth. Only a year or two older than Molly.

See the eye that woman gave her, passing. Cruel.

He looked still at her, holding back behind his look his discontent. Pungent mockturtle, oxtail, mulligatawny. I'm hungry too. A few flakes of |2pastry: and a pastry on the gusset of her dress:2| daub of sugary flour stuck to her cheek. Floey Powell that was. U.p: up.

Change the subject.

— Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy? Mr Bloom asked.

— Mina Purefoy? she said.

Philip Beaufoy I was thinking. Playgoers' Club. Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke.

— Yes.

— I just called over to ask is she over it. She's in the maternity hospital in Holles street. Dr Horne got her in. She's three days bad now.

— O, Mr Bloom said. I'm sorry to hear that.

— Yes, Mrs Breen said. And a houseful of kids at home. It's a very stiff birth, the nurse told me.

— O, Mr Bloom said.

His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her t news. His tongue clacked in compassion. Dth! Dth!

— I'm sorry to hear that, he said. Poor thing! Three days. That's terrible for her.

Mrs Breen nodded.

— She was taken bad on the Mon Tuesday …

Mr Bloom touched her funnybone gently, warning her:

— Mind! Let this man pass.

A bony form strode along the curbstone from the river staring with a rapt gaze into the sunlight through a heavystringed glass. Tight as a skullpiece a tiny hat gripped his head. From his
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arm a folded dustcoat, a stick and an umbrella dangled to his stride.

— Watch him, Mr Bloom said. He always walks outside the lampposts. Watch.

— Who is he when he's at home? Mrs Breen asked. Is he dotty?

— His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Bloom said smiling. Watch.

— He has enough of them, she said. Denis will be like that one of these days.

She broke off suddenly.

— There he is, she said. I must go after him. Goodbye. Remember me to Molly, won't you?

— I will, Mr Bloom said.

He watched her dodge through passers towards the shopfronts. Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of Harrison's hugging two heavy tomes to his ribs. Like old times. He suffered her to overtake him without surprise and thrust his dull grey beard towards her, his loose jaw wagging as he spoke earnestly.

Off his chump.

Mr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him in sunlight the tight skullpiece, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat. |2|aGoing the two days.a|2| Watch him. |2Going the two days.{sup>{small>2| Out he goes again. And that other old mosey lunatic. Hard time she must have with him.

U.p: up. I'll take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding. Wrote it for a lark in the Scotch house I bet anything. Round to Menton's office. His oyster eyes staring at the postcard. Be a sight for the gods.

He passed the Irish Times. There might be other answers lying there. At their lunch now. Clerk with the glasses there doesn't know me. O, let them stay there. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them. Wanted, smart typist to aid gentleman in literary work. I called you naughty darling because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is the meaning. Please tell me what perfume your wife. Tell me who made the world. The way they spring those questions on you. And the other one Lizzie
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Twigg. My literary efforts have had the good fortune to meet with the approval of the eminent poet A.E (Mr Geo. Russell). No time to do her hair drinking sloppy tea with a book of poetry.

Best paper for a small ad. James Carlisle made that. Six and a half per cent dividend. Cunning old Scotch fox. All the toady news. Our gracious and popular vicereine. Bought the Irish Field now. Lady Mountcashel has now completely recovered after her confinement and rode out with the Meath hounds. Strong as a brood mare some of those horsey women. |2Toss off a glass of raw brandy while you'd say knife.2| That one at the Grosvenor this morning. Up with her on the car: wishswish. Think that pugnosed tramdriver did it out of spite.

Poor Mrs Purefoy!

He stood at Fleet street crossing. A lunch at Rowe's? Must look up that ad in the national library. An eightpenny in the Burton. On my way.

He walked on past Bolton's Westmoreland house. Tea, tea, tea. I forgot to tap Tom Kernan.

Ss. Dth, dth, dth! Three days imagine groaning on a bed with a vinegared handkerchief round her forehead, her belly swollen out. Phew! Dreadful simply! Child's head too |2big. big: forceps.2| Doubled up inside her trying to butt its way out blindly, groping for the way out. Kill me that would. Lucky Molly got over hers lightly. They ought to invent something to stop that. Twilight sleep idea: queen Victoria was given that. Time someone thought about it instead of gassing about the what was it pensive bosom of the silver effulgence. They could easily have big establishments, whole thing quite painless, out of all the taxes give every child born five quid at compound interest up to twentyone five per cent is a hundred shillings and five tiresome pounds multiply by twenty decimal system encourage people to put by money save hundred and ten and a bit twenty one years want to work it out on paper come to a tidy sum. More than you think.

Not stillborn of course. They are not even registered. Trouble for nothing.
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How flat they look aft all of a sudden after. Peaceful eyes. Weight off their mind. Old Mrs Thornton was a jolly old soul. Snuffy doctor Brody. People knocking them up at all hours|2. For God' sake doctor. Wife in her throes.2| then keep them waiting months for their fees. People are very ungrateful to doctors.

A squad of constables debouched from College street, marching in Indian file. Foodheatedº faces, sweating helmets, patting their truncheons. After their feed with a good load of fat soup under their belts. They split up in groups and scattered, saluting, towards their beats. Let out to graze. A squad of others, marching irregularly rounded Trinity railings making for the station. Bound for their troughs. Prepare to receive cavalry. Prepare to receive soup.

He crossed under Tommy Moore's roguish finger. They did right to put him up over a urinal: meeting of the waters. There is not in this wide world a vallee. Great song of Julia Morkan's. Kept her voice up to the very last. Pupil of Michael Balfe's, wasn't she?

He gazed after the last broad tunic. Nasty customers to tackle. Jack Power could tell a few tales: father was a G. man. If a fellow gave them trouble being lagged they let him have it hot and heavy in the bridewell. Can't blame them after all with the job they have. That horsepoliceman they day Joe Chamberlain was given his degree in Trinity he got a run for his money. My word he did! His horse's hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street. Lucky I had the presence of mind to dive into Manning's. He did come a wallop, by George. Must have cracked his skull on the cobblestones. I oughtn't to have got myself swept along with those medicals. Right here it was.

— Up the boers!

— Three cheers for De Wet.

— We'll hang Joe Chamberlain on a sourapple tree.
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Silly game: mob of young cubs yelling their guts out. Few years' time half of them magistrates and civil servants. War comes on: into the army helterskelter: same fellows used to. Whether on the scaffold high.

Never know who you're talking to. Corny Kelleher he has Harvey Duff in his eye. Like that Peter of Denis or James Carey blew the gaff on the invincibles. Member of the corporation too. Egging raw youths on to get in the know all the time drawing secret service pay from the castle. Stephen's idea was the best. He knew them. Circles of ten so that a fellow couldn't inform on more than his own ring. |2Turnkey Turnkey's daughter2| got him out of Richmond, off from Lusk, putting up in the Buckingham palace hotel righ under their very noses. Irish Garibaldi.

You must have a certain fascination. |2Parnell.2| Arthur Griffith is a squareheaded fellow but he hasn't got go in him for the mob. |2Want to Or2| gas about our lovely land. Have your daughters inveigling them to your house. Fill them up with meat and drink. The not far distant day. Homerule sun rising up in the northwest.

His smile faded as he walked, a heavy cloud hiding the sun slowly, shadowing Trinity's surly front. Trams passed e one another, ingoing, outgoing, clanging. Useless words. Things go on: same: day after day: squads of police marching out, back: trams in, out. Those two loonies |2meandering mooching2| about. Dignam carted off. Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a bed groaning to have a child tugged out of her. One born every second somewhere. Another dying every second. Since I fed the birds five minutes. Three hundred kicked the bucket. Other three hundred born, washing the blood off, bawling maaaaaa.

Cityful passing away, other cityful |2coming2| passing away too: other coming on, passing on. Houses, lines of houses, street, miles of pavements, piled up bricks, stones. Changing hands. This owner, that. Landlord never dies they say. Other steps into his shoes
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when he gets his notice to quit. They buy the place with gold and then they have the place and gold as well. Of course there's a swindle in it somewhere. Piled up in cities, worn away age after age. Pyramids in sand. Babylon. Big stones left. Rest rubble, sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt. Kerwan's houses built of breeze. Shelter, for the night.

No-one is anything.

This is the very worst hour of the day. Dull, gloomy. I feel. Hate this hour. Provost's house. |2The reverend tinned Salmon |aD.D.a| Well tinned in there.2| Like a mortuary chapel. Wouldn't live in it if they paid me. Hope they have liver and bacon today.

The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among the silverware in Walter Sexton's window opposite by which John Howard Parnell passed, unseeing.

There he is. The brother. Image of the brother. Haunting face. Now that's a coincidence. Course hundreds of times you think of a person and don't meet him. Like a man walking in his sleep. No-one knows him. Must be a corporation meeting today. They say he never put on the city marshal's uniform since he got the job. Charley Boulger used to come out on his horse, cocked hat, puffed, powdered and shaved. Look at the woebegone walk of him. Great man's brother: his brother's brother. Drop into the DBC probably for his coffee play chess there let them all go to pot. Afraid to pass a remark on him. Freeze them up with that eye of his. That's the fascination. The name. |2Still David Sheehy beat him for south Meath.2| Simon Dedalus said when they put him in parliament that Parnell would come back from the grave and lead him out of the house of commons by the arm.

— Of the twoheaded octopus, one of whose heads is the head upon which the ends of the world are about to come while the other speaks with a Scotch accent. The tentacles ….

They passed from behind Mr Bloom along the curbstone. Beard and bicycle. Young woman.

And there he is now that's really a coincidence. |2Second time.2| With the approval of the eminent poet, Mr Geo Russell. That might be Lizzie Twigg |2with him2|. A.E: what doesº that
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mean. Initials perhaps. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire. What was he saying? The ends of the world with a Scotch accent. Tentacles: octopus: that's some symbolism. Holding forth. She's taking it all in. Not saying a word. |2To aid gentleman in literary work.2|

His eyes following the high figure in homespun, beard and bicycle, a listening woman at his side. Coming from the vegetarian. Only vegetables and fruits. They say it's healthier. Windandwatery though. Tried it too. Why do they call that thing they gave me nutsteak? To give you the idea you are eating rumpsteak. Absurd.

Her stockings are loose over her ankles. I detest that. So |2careless tasteless2|. Those literary etherial people they are all. Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic. Esthetes they are. I wouldn't be surprised if it was that kind of food you see produces the like waves of the brain the poetical. For example one of those policeman sweating soup into their shirts you couldn't squeeze poetry out of him. Don't know what poetry is even. Must be in a certain mood.

The dreamy cloudy gull
Waves o'er the waters dull.

He crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the window of Yeates and Son, pricing the fieldglasses. Or will I drop into old Harris's and have a chat with young Sinclair. Nice wellmannered fellow. Probably at his lunch. Must get those old glasses of mine set right. Goerz lenses seven guineas. Might chance on a pair in the railway lost property office. Astonishing the things people leave behind them in trains and cloakrooms. What do they be thinking about? Women too. Incredible. There's a little watch up there on the roof of the bank to test those glasses by.

His lids came down on the lower rims of his irises. Can't see it. If you imagine it's there you can almost see it. Can't see it.

He faced about and, standing between the awnings, held out his right hand at arm's length towards the sun. Wanted to try that often. Yes: completely. The tip of his little finger blotted out the sun's disk.
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Must be the focus where the rays cross. If I had black glasses. Interesting. There was a lot of talk about those sunspots when we were in Hey Lombard street west. Looking up from the back garden. Terrific explosions they are. There will be a total eclipse this year, autumn some time.

Now that I come to think that ball falls at Greenwich time. It's the clock is worked by an electric wire from Dunsink. Must go out there some first Saturday of the month. If I could get an introduction to professor Joly or learn up something about his family. That would do to: man always feels complimented.


His hand fell |2back |aagaina|2| to his side |2|aagaina|2|

Never know anything about it. Waste of time. Gasballs spinning about, crossing each other, passing. Same old dingdong always. Gas, then solid, then world, then cold, then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock, like that pineapple rock. The moon. Must be a new moon out, she said. I believe there is.

He went on by la maison claire Claire.

Wait. The full moon was the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly there is a new moon. Walking down by the Tolka. She was humming. The young may moon she's beaming, love. He other side of her. Elbow. Fingers. He. Glowworm's laamp is gleaming, love. Touch, Fingers. Asking. Answer. Yes.

Stop. Stop. If it was it was. Must.

Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court.

With ha quiet keep quiet relief his eyes took note this is the street here middle of the day of Bob Doran's bottle shoulders. On his annual bend, M'Coy said. Up in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then the rest of the year sober as a judge.

Yes. Thought so. Into the Empire. Gone. Where Pat Kinsella had his Harp theatre. Broth of a boy Dion Boucicault business with his harvestmoon face in a poky bonnet. Three Purty Maids from School. How time flies, eh? Showing long red pantaloons under his skirts. Drinkers, drinking, laughed. Good man, Pat. Coarse red: fun for drunkards: guffaw and smoke. His parboiled eyes. |2Where is he now. Beggar somewhere.2| The harp that once did starve us all.

I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Twentyeight I was. She twentythree. Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would I go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you? Are you not happy then in
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your life you poor little naughty boy? I must answer. Write it in the library.

Grafton street gay with housed awnings. Muslin prints, silk dames passing, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds soft ringing on the cooking causeway. Thick ankles that woman has in the white stockings. Countrybred. Beef to the heels were in. Always gives a woman clumsy feet. Molly looks out of shape.

He passed, dallying, the window of Brown Thomas, silk mercers. A tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood. The huguenots brought that here. Must be washed in rainwater.

Pincushions. I'm a long time threatening to buy one. Sticking them all over the place.

He bared slightly his left forearm. Scrape: nearly gone. Not today anyhow. Must go back for that lotion. For her birthday perhaps. June, July, Augseptember eighth. Nearly three months off. Then she mightn't like it. Women won't pick up pins. Say its cuts lo.

Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of silk stockings.

Useless to go back. Had to be. Tell me all.

High voices. Sunwarmth. Silk. Jingling harnesses. Women, women.

A warm human plumpness settled down on his brain. His brain yielded. Perfumes of embraces assailed him. His hungered flesh obscurely, mutely craved to adore.

Duke street. Here we are. Must eat. The Burton. Feel better then.

He turned Combridge's corner, still pursued. Jingling, hoofthuds. Perfumed bodies, warm, full. All kissed, yielded: in deep summer fields, tangled pressed grass, in trickling hallways of tenements, along sofas, creaking beds, chairs.

— Jack, love!
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— Darling!

— Kiss me, Reggie!

— My boy!

— Love!

His heart astir he pushed in the door of the Burton restaurant. Stink gripped his trembling breath: pungent meatjuice, slop of |2vegetables greens2|.

Men, men, men.

Squatted on high stools by the bar, hats shoved back, at the tables, calling for more bread, no charge, swilling, |2chewing wolfing2| gobfuls of sloppy food, their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. A man with a |2infant's2| napkin tucked round him spooned gurgling soup down his gullet. A man spitting back on his plate: gristle: no teeth to chew it. Chump chop he has. Sad booser's eyes.

— Roast beef and cabbage.

— One stew.

Smells of men. Spat-on sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarettesmoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the stale of ferment.

|2His gorge rose.2|

Couldn't eat a morsel here. Get out of it.

He gazed round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of his nose.

— Two stouts here.

— One corned and cabbage.

That fellow ramming a knifeful of cabbage down. Give me the fidgets to look at him. Like second nature to him. Born with a silver knife in his mouth. That's witty, I think. Or no. Silver means born rich. Born with a knife. But then the allusion is lost.

An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates. Rock, the head bailiff, standing at the bar blew the foamy crown from his tankard. Well up: it splashed yellow near his boot.

Mr Bloom raised his fingers to his lips doubtfully.
{ms, 017}
His eyes said:

— Not here. Don't see him.

Get out of it. He backed towards the door. Get something light in Davy Byrne's next door. Keep me going. Had a good breakfast.

— Roast and mashed here.

— Pint of stout.

Every fellow for his own, tooth and nail. |2Gulp grub gulp.2|

He came out into clearer air and turned back towards Grafton street

Suppose that communal kitchen. Years to come perhaps. All coming down with a porringer to be filled, John Howard Parnell, example, the provost of Trinity, everybody don't talk of your provosts and provost of Trinity, women and children and cabmen and priests and parsons and field marshals and archbishops, Father O'Flynn would make hares of them all. Want a souppot as big as the Phoenix park. Then who'd wash up all the plates and forks? Might be all feeding on tabloids that time. Teeth getting worse and worse.

After all there's a lot in that vegetarian the fine flavours of things from the earth garlic of course it stinks after |2Italians2| crisp of onions mushrooms. Pain to the animal too. Poor |2|xwretchedx|2| brutes there at the cattle market waiting for the poleaxe to split their skulls open. Moo. Poor trembling calves. Meh. Staggering bob. Bubble and squeak. Butchers' buckets wobbly lights. Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Insidious. Lick it up smoking |2hot2|. |2|xghostsx|2|

Ah, I'm hungry.

He entered Davy Byrne's. What will I take? Let me see now.

— Hello, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said from his nook

— Hello, Flynn.

— How is things going?

— Tiptop … Let me see. I'll take a glass of burgundy and let me see.

Sardines on the shelves. Potted meats. What is home without Plumtree's potted meat? Incomplete. What a stupid ad. |2Right under the obituary notices too. |aDignam's potted meat.a|2| With it abode of
{ms, 018}
bliss. Lord knows what concoction.

— Have you a cheese sandwich?

— Yes, sir.

Like a few olives too if they had them. Good glass of burgundy take away that feeling.

— Wife well?

— Quite well, thanks …. A cheese sandwich, then. Gorgonzola, have you?

— Yes, sir.

Nosey Flynn sipped his grog.

— Doing any singing those times?

Flap ears. Music. Knows as much about it as my coachman. Still better tell him. Does no harm.

— She's engaged for a big tour end of this month. You may have heard perhaps.

— No. O, that's the style. Who's getting it up?

The barman |2curate2| served.

— How much is that?

— Seven d, sir …. Thank you, sir.

Mr Bloom cut his sandwich into slender strips.

— Mustard, sir.

— Thank you.

He studded under each lifted strip yellow blobs carefully.

— Getting it up? he said. Well, it's like a company idea, you see. Part shares and part profits.

— Ay, now I remember, Nosey Flynn said, putting his hand in his pocket to scratch his groin. Who is this was telling me? Isn't Blazes Boylan mixed up in it?

A warm shock of air, heat of mustard, hanched on Mr Bloom's heart. He raised his eyes and met the stare of a bilious clock. Two. Time going on. Hands moving. Two. Not yet.

His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, yearned more longly, longingly.


He set down his wineglass delicately, having tasted a comforting sip.

— Yes, he said. He's the organiser in point of fact.
{ms, 019}

No fear: no brains.

Nosey Flynn snuffled

— He made a tidy bit Jack Mooney was telling me over that boxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the Portobello barracks. By God, he had Myler down in the country, he was telling me …

Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his glass. No, snuffled it up.

— For near a month, man, before it came off. Sucking duck eggs, by God, all day long. Keep him off the boose, see? O, by God, Blazes is a hairy chap.

Davy Byrne came forward from the hind bar in shirtsleeves, cleaning his lips with two wipes of his napkin. |2Herring's blush.2|

— And here's himself and pepper on him, Nosey Flynn |2said2|. Can you give us a good one for the Gold cup.

— I'm off that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne answered. I never put anything on a horse.

— You're right there, Nosey Flynn said.

Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, relishing fresh clean bread, pungent mustard, the feety savour of green cheese. Sips of his wine soothed his palate.

Nice quiet bar. Nice piece of wood in that counter. Nicely planed. Like the way it curves there.

— I wouldn't do anything in that line at all, Davy Byrne said. It ruined many a man, the same horses.

— True for you, Nosey Flynn said. Unless you're in the know. There's no straight sport going now. Lenehan gets some good ones. He's giving Sceptre today, Zinfandel's the favourite, lord Howard de Walden's won at Epsom. Morny Cannon is riding him. I could have got seven to two against Saint Amant a fortnight before.

— That so? Davy Byrne said.

He went towards the window and, taking up the pettycash book, scanned its pages.

— I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. That must have been a sight worth seeing. She won in a thunderstorm,º Rothschild's filly, with
{ms, 020}
wadding in her ears. Bloody curse to big Ben Dollard and his |2Sailor Prunread John O'Gaunt2|. He put me off it. Ay.

He drank resignedly from his tumbler, running his fingers down the flutes.

— Ay, he said, sighing.

Mr Bloom, champing, standing looked |2unread upon2| his sigh. Nosey numbskull. Tell him that horse will I Lenehan tipped? Go and lose more. Fool and his money. Dewdrop coming down again. Cold nose he'd have if he kissed a woman. Still they might like. They like prickly beards. Dogs' cold noses. |2|xSkye terrier in the City Arms hotel old Mrs Riordan with her rumbling stomach had. in Molly's lap.x|2| O, the big doggybowwowsywowsy.

Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread mustard a moment mawkish cheese. Nice wine it is. Taste it better because I'm not thirsty. Bath of course does that. Just a light |2lunch. snack.2| Then about six o'clock I can. Six. Six. Time will be gone then. She.

Mild fire of wine kindled his veins. I wanted that really. Felt so off colour. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters' claws. All the odd things people picked up for food. Out of shells, |2|xperiwinkles with a pin,x|2| off trees, out of the ground, out of the sea with a hook and bait. Must have been led on by the smell or the look to know what was good. Orangegroves for instance. Need artificial irrigation. Bleibtreustrasse. Yes but what about oysters. Unsightly like a clot of phlegm. Filthy shells. Devil to open them too. Who found them out? Garbage, sewage they feed on. Only the fashion it is. |2Red bank2| Oysters and fizz. Effect on the sexual. Aphrodis. He was in the Red Bank this morning. Was he oysters old fish at table people say who knows young flesh in bed. |2Of course there are people like things high. |a|bTaintedb| Gamea| That Austrian archduke unread said. Habsburgs, aristocrats of course2|

No it's simply the fashion. Throw half the haul back into the sea to keep up the price. Cheap no-one would buy. Caviare. Do the grand. Especially with fish. Hock in green glasses. Swell blow out. Lady this. Powdered bosom pearls. May I tempt you to a little more filleted sole, Miss Dubedat? Yes, do bedad. And she did bedad. Huguenot name I expect that
{ms, 021}
must be. |2A miss Dubedat lived in Kunread, I remember.2| Du de la is French. Still it's the same fish perhaps old |2Michael2| Hanlon ripped the guts out of in Moore street making money hand over fist with that with his finger tearing open fish and can't write his name. on a cheque, think he was painting it with mouth twisted. Moooikel. Ignorant as a kish of brogues. Worth sixty thousand pounds.

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his palate moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth below us bay and sky. No sound. The bay. The sky. Over her I lay full lips full open kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour |2of her2| spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips |2as she gave2| pouting. Soft warm sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were take me willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She did not move. A goat. Nobody. High above it passed surefooted dropping currants Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched throat beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of voile fat nipples standing. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair, kissed, she kissed me.

Me. And me now.

His downcast eyes followed the silent veining of the oaken slab. Beauty: it curves: curves are beauty. Shapely goddesses. Juno. Venus. Their curves the world admires. I will call into the museum, see them standing in the round hall, naked, goddesses they don't care who sees looks at them, all parts,. Never speaking. I mean to say to fellows like Flynn. Quaffing nectar
{ms, 022}
at mess with the gods golden dishes all ambrosial.º Not like a lunch for a tanner, we have boiled mutton, carrots and turnips, bottle of Allsopp. Nectar imagine it like drinking electricity: gods' food. Lovely forms of women |2Junonian.2| bodies. Immortal. And we stuffing food in one hole and out |2the other. behind.2| They have no. I never looked. I'll look today. Keeper not looking. Bend down let something |2fall drop.2| see if she.

A quiet message dribbled from his bladder. A man and ready he drank his wine off to the lees and walked to men too they gave themselves manly conscious lay with men lovers a youth enjoyed her towards the yard.

When the sound of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said from his book.

— What is this he is? Isn't he in the insurance line?

— He's out of that long ago, Nosey Flynn said. He does canvassing for the Freeman.

— I know him well to see, Davy Byrne said. Is he in trouble?

— Trouble? Nosey Flynn said. Not that I heard of. Why?

— I noticed he was in mourning, Davy Byrne said.

— Was he? Nosey Flynn said. So he was, faith. I asked him how was all at home. You're right, by God. So he was.

— I never touch on the subject, Davy Byrne said respectfully, if I see a person is in trouble that way. It only brings it up fresh in their minds.

— It's not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. I met him the day before yesterday and he coming out of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in Henry street with a jar of cream in his hand taking it home to his better half. She's well nourished, I tell you. Plovers on toast.

— And is he doing for the Freeman? Davy Byrne said.

Nosey Flynn pursed his lips.

— He doesn't buy cream on the ads he picks up. You may take that from me?

— How so? Davy Byrne asked.

Nosey Flynn made swift passes in the air with juggling fingers and winked.
{ms, 023}

— He's in the craft, he said.

— Do you tell me so? Davy Byrne said.

— Very much so, Nosey Flynn said. Ancient, free and accepted order. He's an excellent brother. Light, life and love, by God. They give him a leg up. I was told that by a — well, I won't say who.

— Is that a fact? Davy Byrne said.

— O, it's a fine order, Nosey Flynn said. They stick to you when you're down. I know a fellow was trying to get into it. But they're as close as damn it. By God they did right to keep the women out of it.

Davy Byrne smiled, yawned, nodded|2. all in one.

— Iiiiiichaaach!2|

— There was one woman, Nosey Flynn |2said2|, hid herself in a clock to find out what they do be doing. But be damned but they smelt her too and swore her in |2on the spot a master mason2|. That was one of the saint Legers of Doneraile.

Davy Byrne sated after his yawn, said |2with tearwet eyes2|:

— And is that a fact? Decent quiet man he is. I often saw him in here and I never once saw him — you know, over the line.

— Couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn said firmly. Slips off when it gets too hot. Didn't you see him look at his watch? Ah, you weren't there. If you ask him to have a drink first thing he does he outs with the watch to see what it ought to be. Declare to God he does.

— There are some like that, Davy Byrne said,. He's a safe man, I'd say.

— He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said. He's been known to put his hand down too to help a fellow. Give the devil his due. O, Bloom has his good points. But there's one thing he'll never do.

His hand scrawled a dry pen signature beside his grog.

— I know, Davy Byrne said.

— Nothing in black and white, Nosey Flynn said.

Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons came in. Tom Rochford followed frowning, a plaining
{ms, 024}
hand on his claret waistcoat.

— Day, Mr Byrne

— Day, gentlemen

They paused at the counter.

— Who's standing? Paddy Leonard asked.

— I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn said.

— Well, what'll it be? Paddy Leonard asked.

— I'll take a stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said.

— How much? Paddy Leonard cried. Since when, for God' sake? What's yours, Tom?

— How is the main drainage? Nosey Flynn asked.

For answer Tom Rochford pressed his hand to his breastbone and retched dumbly in his throat.

— Would I trouble you for a glass of fresh water, Mr Byrne? he said.

— Certainly, sir.

Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates.

— Lord love a duck, he said. Look at what I'm standing drinks to. Water and gingerbeer.

— He has some bloody horse up his sleeve, Paddy Leonard said of Lyons. For the Gold cup.

— Zinfandel is it? Nosey Flynn asked.

Tom Rochford split spilt powder from a folded paper into the water set before him.

— That cursed dyspepsia, he said before drinking:

— Breadsoda is very good, Davy Byrne |2said civilly. said.2|

Tom Rochford nodded and drank.

— Is it Zinfandel?

— Say nothing?! Bantam Lyons said with a wink. I'm going to have five bob on my own.

— Tell us and be damned to you, Paddy Leonard said. Who gave it |2to2| you?

Mr Bloom on his way out raised three fingers in greeting.

— So long! Nosey Flynn said.

The others turned.

— That's the man now that gave it to me, Bantam
{ms, 025}
Lyons whispered.

— Prrwh! Paddy Leonard said with scorn. Mr Byrne, sir, we'll take two of your small whiskies after that and a ….

— Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly.

— Ay, Paddy Leonard said. A sucking bottle for the baby.

Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street. Something green it would have to be: spinach, say. Then with those Röntgen rays searchlight you could. In Duke lane a terrier |2sicked choked up2| a |2sick2| knuckly cud on the cobblestones and lapped it with new zest. |2Mr Bloom coasted warily.2| Ruminants. Wonder if Tom Rochford will do anything with that invention of his? Wasting time explaining it to Flynn's mouth. Lean people long mouths. Ought to be a hall or place where inventors could go in and invent free. Course you'd have cranks pestering. |2He hummed in solemn echo prolonging the closes of the bars:2|

Don Giovanni, a cenar teco

Feel better now. |2That Kilkenny People in the National library now I must.2|

Bare |2waiting privies clean closestools waiting2| in the window of William Miller, plumber, turned back his thoughts. They could: and watch it all the way down changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of intestines like pipes. But the poor buffer would have to stand all the time with his insides on show. Science.

A cenar teco.

What does teco mean. Tonight perhaps.

Don Giovanni thou hast me invited
To come to supper tonight
The rum the rumdum

Doesn't go properly.

Keyes: two months if I get Nannetti to. That'll be two pounds ten about two pounds eight. Three Hynes owes me. Two eleven. Prescott's
{ms, 026}
dyeworks van over there. If I get Billy Prescott's ad: two fifteen. Five guineas about. On the pig's back.

Could get buy one of those silk petticoats for Molly, colour of her new garters. Tour the south then. What about English watering places? Those |2lovely seaside2| girls.

He turned at Gray's confectioner's window of tarts and passed the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore. Why I left the church of Rome. Birds' nest women finance him. They say they used to give hungry children soup to change |2to protestants2|. Why they left the church of Rome.

A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone with his slender cane. No tram in sight. Wants to cross.

— Do you want to cross? Mr Bloom asked.

The blind stripling did not answer. His wallface frowned weakly. He moved his head uncertainly.

— You're in Dawson street, Mr Bloom said. Molesworth street is opposite. Do you want to cross? There's nothing in the way.

The cane moved out trembling to the left. Mr Bloom's gaze followed its line and saw again the dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's. Where I saw his brillantined hair just when I was. Horse drooping.

— There's a van there, Mr Bloom said, but it's not moving. I'll see you across. Do you want to go to Molesworth street?

— Yes, the boy answered. South Frederick street.

— Come, Mr Bloom said.

He took the thin elbow gently and, guiding |2him the boy2| across the street, set him by the farther curbstone.
{ms, 027}

He |2took touched2| the thin elbow |2gently and gently:2| then took the limp |2blind seeing2| hand. and guided the boy slowly forward.

|2Say something to him. Better not do the condescending. Something ordinary.


Stains on his coat. Slobbers his food, I suppose. Like a child's hand, his hand. Like Milly's was. Sensitive. Sizing me up probably from my hand. Van. Keep |2him his cane2| clear of the horses' legs: tired brute get his doze. That's right. Clear. Behind a bull: in front of a horse.

— Thanks, sir.

Knows I'm a man. Voice.

— Right now? First turn to the left.

The blind stripling tapped the curbstone and went on his way, drawing his cane back, feeling again.

Mr Bloom walked behind him. Poor young fellow! How on earth did he know that van was there? Must have felt it. See things in their forehead perhaps: kind of sense. of volume. |2Weight or size of it, something blacker than the dark.2| Wonder if he'd feel it if something was removed. Feel a gap. Queer idea of Dublin he must have, tapping his way round by the stones. Could he walk in a beeline if he hadn't that cane? Bloodless pious face like a fellow going to be a priest.

Penrose! That was that chap's name.

Look at all the things they can learn to do. |2Read with their fingers.2| Tune pianos, of course the other senses are more, embroider, |2weaving plait2| baskets. People ought to help them. Workbasket I could buy for Molly's birthday. Hates sewing. Mightn't like it. Dark men they call them.

Sense of smell must be stronger too. Smells on all sides, bunched together. Each street different smell. Each person too. Then the spring, the summer: smells. Tastes? They say you can't taste wines with the your eyes shut. Also smoke in the dark they say get no pleasure.

And with a woman
{ms, 028}
for instance. Must be strange not to see her. Kind of a picture in his mind's eye. The voice, temperatures: when he touches her with his fingers must almost see the lines, the curves. His hands on her hair, for instance. Say it was black, for instance. Good. We call it black. Then passing over her white skin. Different feel perhaps. Feeling of white.

Postoffice. Must answer. Fag today. Send her a postal order. Accept my little present. |2Stationer's just here too.2| Wait. Think over it.

With a gentle finger he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above his ears. Again. Fibres of fine fine straw. Then gently his finger felt the skin of his right cheek. Sprouting hair there too. Not smooth enough. The belly is the smoothest. No-one about. There he goes into Frederick street. Might be settling my braces.

Walking by Doran's public house he slid his hand between his waistcoat and trousers and, pulling aside his shirt gently, felt a slack fold of his belly. But I know it's whitey yellow. Want to try in the dark to see.

He withdrew his hand and pulled his dress to.

Poor fellow! Quite a boy. Terrible. Really terrible. Where is the justice being born that way? |2All those children and women killed in New York yesterday.2| That Karma book the transmigration for sins you did in a past life the reincarnation. Dear, dear, dear. Pity, of course: but somehow you can't cotton on to them someway.

Sir Frederick Falkiner going into the freemason's freemasons' hall. Solemn as Troy. After a good lunch. |2I suppose he'd turn up his nose at the wine I drank2| Going down to the recorder's court to try fellows after. Justice. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul. Hello. Mirus bazaar. His Excellency the lord lieutenant. Sixteenth. Today it is. In aid of funds
{ms, 029}
for Mercer's hospital. The Messiah was |2first2| given for that. Yes. Handel. What about going out there: Ballsbridge. Sure to know someone on the gate.

Mr Bloom came into Kildare street. First I must. Library.

Straw hat |2in the sunlight2|. Tan b shoes. Turned up trousers. It is. It is.

His heart quopped softly. To the right. Museum. Goddesses. He swerved to the right.

Is it? Almost certain. Won't look. Yes, it is. The walk. Not see. Get on.

Making towards the museum gate with long windy strides steps he lifted his eyes. Handsome building. Sir Thomas Deane designed that. Not following me?

Didn't see me perhaps. Light in his eyes.

The flutter of his breath came forth in short sighs. Quick. Cold statues: quiet there. Safe in a minute.

No. Didn't see me. After two. Just at the gate.

My heart!

His eyes beating, looked steadfastly at the cream |2curves of2| stone. Sir Thomas Deane was the Greek architecture.

Look for something |2I2|.

His hasty hand went quick into a pocket, took out and read unfolded Agendathº Netaim. Where did I?

Busy looking.

He thrust back |2quick2| Agendath.

Afternoon she said.

I am looking for that. Yes. that. |2Try all pockets. Handker.2| Where did I? Ah, yes.

Hurry. Walk quietly. Moment more. My heart.

His hand looking for the where did I put found in his hip pocket soap. tepid paper stuck. |2to2| soap. Ah soap there I yes. Gate.