This eBook is designed and published by Planet pdf. For more free

Ulysses 

278 

of

 1305 

Going to crop up all day, I foresee. Who’s dead, when 

and what did he die of? Turn up like a bad penny. 

—O, dear me, Mrs Breen said. I hope it wasn’t any 

near relation. 

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 womaneyes 

said melancholily. 

Now that’s quite enough about that. Just: quietly: 

husband. 

—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 to 

rattlesnakes. He’s in there now with his lawbooks finding 

out the law of libel. He has me heartscalded. Wait till I 

show you. 

---

Ulysses 

279 

of

 1305 

Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked 

jampuffs rolypoly poured out from Harrison’s. The heavy 

noonreek tickled the top of Mr Bloom’s gullet. Want to 

make good pastry, butter, best flour, Demerara sugar, or 

they’d taste it with the hot tea. Or is it from her? A 

barefoot arab stood over the grating, breathing in the 

fumes. Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way. Pleasure or 

pain is it? Penny dinner. Knife and fork chained to the 

table. 

Opening her handbag, chipped leather. Hatpin: ought 

to have a guard on those things. Stick it in a chap’s eye in 

the tram. Rummaging. Open. Money. Please take one. 

Devils if they lose sixpence. Raise Cain. Husband barging. 

Where’s the ten shillings I gave you on Monday? Are you 

feeding your little brother’s family? Soiled handkerchief: 

medicinebottle. Pastille that was fell. 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. 

---

Ulysses 

280 

of

 1305 

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

nightmare. 

Indiges. 

—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. 

—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 into her untidy bag and snapped 

the catch. 

Same blue serge dress she had two years ago, the nap 

bleaching. Seen its best days. Wispish hair over her ears. 

And that dowdy toque: three old grapes to take the harm 

out of it. Shabby genteel. She used to be a tasty dresser. 

Lines round her mouth. Only a year or so older than 

Molly. 

---

Ulysses 

281 

of

 1305 

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

unfair sex. 

He looked still at her, holding back behind his look his 

discontent. Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. I’m 

hungry too. Flakes of pastry on the gusset of her dress: 

daub of sugary flour stuck to her cheek. Rhubarb tart with 

liberal fillings, rich fruit interior. Josie Powell that was. In 

Luke Doyle’s long ago. Dolphin’s Barn, the charades. 

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. Did I pull the 

chain? Yes. The last act. 

—Yes. 

—I just called to ask on the way in is she over it. She’s 

in the lying-in 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. 

---

Ulysses 

282 

of

 1305 

His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her 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 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 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 if it’s a fair question? 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? 

---