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Raymond terrace she was at the window watching the
two dogs at it by the wall of the cease to do evil. And the
sergeant grinning up. She had that cream gown on with
the rip she never stitched. Give us a touch, Poldy. God,
I’m dying for it. How life begins.
Got big then. Had to refuse the Greystones concert.
My son inside her. I could have helped him on in life. I
could. Make him independent. Learn German too.
—Are we late? Mr Power asked.
—Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham said, looking at
his watch.
Molly. Milly. Same thing watered down. Her tomboy
oaths. O jumping Jupiter! Ye gods and little fishes! Still,
she’s a dear girl. Soon be a woman. Mullingar. Dearest
Papli. Young student. Yes, yes: a woman too. Life, life.
The carriage heeled over and back, their four trunks
swaying.
—Corny might have given us a more commodious
yoke, Mr Power said.
—He might, Mr Dedalus said, if he hadn’t that squint
troubling him. Do you follow me?
He closed his left eye. Martin Cunningham began to
brush away crustcrumbs from under his thighs.
—What is this, he said, in the name of God? Crumbs?
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—Someone seems to have been making a picnic party
here lately, Mr Power said.
All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the
mildewed buttonless leather of the seats. Mr Dedalus,
twisting his nose, frowned downward and said:
—Unless I’m greatly mistaken. What do you think,
Martin?
—It struck me too, Martin Cunningham said.
Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Glad I took that bath.
Feel my feet quite clean. But I wish Mrs Fleming had
darned these socks better.
Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly.
—After all, he said, it’s the most natural thing in the
world.
—Did Tom Kernan turn up? Martin Cunningham
asked, twirling the peak of his beard gently.
—Yes, Mr Bloom answered. He’s behind with Ned
Lambert and Hynes.
—And Corny Kelleher himself? Mr Power asked.
—At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said.
—I met M’Coy this morning, Mr Bloom said. He said
he’d try to come.
The carriage halted short.
—What’s wrong?
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—We’re stopped.
—Where are we?
Mr Bloom put his head out of the window.
—The grand canal, he said.
Gasworks. Whooping cough they say it cures. Good
job Milly never got it. Poor children! Doubles them up
black and blue in convulsions. Shame really. Got off
lightly with illnesses compared. Only measles. Flaxseed
tea. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics. Canvassing for death.
Don’t miss this chance. Dogs’ home over there. Poor old
Athos! Be good to Athos, Leopold, is my last wish. Thy
will be done. We obey them in the grave. A dying scrawl.
He took it to heart, pined away. Quiet brute. Old men’s
dogs usually are.
A raindrop spat on his hat. He drew back and saw an
instant of shower spray dots over the grey flags. Apart.
Curious. Like through a colander. I thought it would. My
boots were creaking I remember now.
—The weather is changing, he said quietly.
—A pity it did not keep up fine, Martin Cunningham
said.
—Wanted for the country, Mr Power said. There’s the
sun again coming out.
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Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the
veiled sun, hurled a mute curse at the sky.
—It’s as uncertain as a child’s bottom, he said.
—We’re off again.
The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their
trunks swayed gently. Martin Cunningham twirled more
quickly the peak of his beard.
—Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. And
Paddy Leonard taking him off to his face.
—O, draw him out, Martin, Mr Power said eagerly.
Wait till you hear him, Simon, on Ben Dollard’s singing
of The Croppy Boy.
—Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously. His
singing of that simple ballad, Martin, is the most trenchant
rendering I ever heard in the whole course of my experience.
—Trenchant, Mr Power said laughing. He’s dead nuts
on that. And the retrospective arrangement.
—Did you read Dan Dawson’s speech? Martin
Cunningham asked.
—I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. Where is it?
—In the paper this morning.
Mr Bloom took the paper from his inside pocket. That
book I must change for her.
—No, no, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Later on please.
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Mr Bloom’s glance travelled down the edge of the
paper, scanning the deaths: Callan, Coleman, Dignam,
Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what Peake is that? is it
the chap was in Crosbie and Alleyne’s? no, Sexton,
Urbright. Inked characters fast fading on the frayed
breaking paper. Thanks to the Little Flower. Sadly missed.
To the inexpressible grief of his. Aged 88 after a long and
tedious illness. Month’s mind: Quinlan. On whose soul
Sweet Jesus have mercy.
It is now a month since dear Henry fled
To his home up above in the sky
While his family weeps and mourns his loss
Hoping some day to meet him on high.
I tore up the envelope? Yes. Where did I put her letter
after I read it in the bath? He patted his waistcoatpocket.
There all right. Dear Henry fled. Before my patience are
exhausted.
National school. Meade’s yard. The hazard. Only two
there now. Nodding. Full as a tick. Too much bone in
their skulls. The other trotting round with a fare. An hour
ago I was passing there. The jarvies raised their hats.
A pointsman’s back straightened itself upright suddenly
against a tramway standard by Mr Bloom’s window.
Couldn’t they invent something automatic so that the
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