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and neat. Print anything now. Silly season. He read on,
seated calm above his own rising smell. Neat certainly.
Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke by which he won the
laughing witch who now. Begins and ends morally. Hand in
hand. Smart. He glanced back through what he had read
and, while feeling his water flow quietly, he envied kindly
Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment of
three pounds, thirteen and six.
Might manage a sketch. By Mr and Mrs L. M. Bloom.
Invent a story for some proverb. Which? Time I used to
try jotting down on my cuff what she said dressing. Dislike
dressing together. Nicked myself shaving. Biting her
nether lip, hooking the placket of her skirt. Timing her.
9.l5. Did Roberts pay you yet? 9.20. What had Gretta
Conroy on? 9.23. What possessed me to buy this comb?
9.24. I’m swelled after that cabbage. A speck of dust on
the patent leather of her boot.
Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her
stockinged calf. Morning after the bazaar dance when
May’s band played Ponchielli’s dance of the hours. Explain
that: morning hours, noon, then evening coming on, then
night hours. Washing her teeth. That was the first night.
Her head dancing. Her fansticks clicking. Is that Boylan
well off? He has money. Why? I noticed he had a good
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rich smell off his breath dancing. No use humming then.
Allude to it. Strange kind of music that last night. The
mirror was in shadow. She rubbed her handglass briskly on
her woollen vest against her full wagging bub. Peering
into it. Lines in her eyes. It wouldn’t pan out somehow.
Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. Night hours then:
black with daggers and eyemasks. Poetical idea: pink, then
golden, then grey, then black. Still, true to life also. Day:
then the night.
He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped
himself with it. Then he girded up his trousers, braced and
buttoned himself. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of
the jakes and came forth from the gloom into the air.
In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he
eyed carefully his black trousers: the ends, the knees, the
houghs of the knees. What time is the funeral? Better find
out in the paper.
A creak and a dark whirr in the air high up. The bells
of George’s church. They tolled the hour: loud dark iron.
Heigho! Heigho!
Heigho! Heigho!
Heigho! Heigho!
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Quarter to. There again: the overtone following
through the air, third.
Poor Dignam!
* * * * *
By lorries along sir John Rogerson’s quay Mr Bloom
walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask’s the linseed
crusher, the postal telegraph office. Could have given that
address too. And past the sailors’ home. He turned from
the morning noises of the quayside and walked through
Lime street. By Brady’s cottages a boy for the skins lolled,
his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A
smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed
him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Tell him if
he smokes he won’t grow. O let him! His life isn’t such a
bed of roses. Waiting outside pubs to bring da home.
Come home to ma, da. Slack hour: won’t be many there.
He crossed Townsend street, passed the frowning face of
Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And past Nichols’
the undertaker. At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay
Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O’Neill’s. Singing with
his eyes shut. Corny. Met her once in the park. In the
dark. What a lark. Police tout. Her name and address she
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then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay. O, surely he
bagged it. Bury him cheap in a whatyoumaycall. With my
tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.
In Westland row he halted before the window of the
Belfast and Oriental Tea Company and read the legends of
leadpapered packets: choice blend, finest quality, family
tea. Rather warm. Tea. Must get some from Tom Kernan.
Couldn’t ask him at a funeral, though. While his eyes still
read blandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil
and sent his right hand with slow grace over his brow and
hair. Very warm morning. Under their dropped lids his
eyes found the tiny bow of the leather headband inside his
high grade ha. Just there. His right hand came down into
the bowl of his hat. His fingers found quickly a card
behind the headband and transferred it to his waistcoat
pocket.
So warm. His right hand once more more slowly went
over his brow and hair. Then he put on his hat again,
relieved: and read again: choice blend, made of the finest
Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it must be: the
garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on,
cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them.
Wonder is it like that. Those Cinghalese lobbing about in
the sun in dolce far niente, not doing a hand’s turn all day.
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