—­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.  Blown in from the bay.  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.

Meshuggah.  Off his chump.

Mr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him in sunlight the tight skullpiece, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat.  Going the two days.  Watch him!  Out he goes again.  One way of getting on in the world.  And that other old mosey lunatic in those duds.  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 feast for the gods.

He passed the irish times.  There might be other answers Iying there.  Like to answer them all.  Good system for criminals.  Code.  At their lunch now.  Clerk with the glasses there doesn’t know me.  O, leave them there to simmer.  Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them.  Wanted, smart lady 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 does your wife.  Tell me who made the world.  The way they spring those questions on you.  And the other one Lizzie 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 by long chalks for a small ad.  Got the provinces now.  Cook and general, exc. cuisine, housemaid kept.  Wanted live man for spirit counter.  Resp. girl (R.C.) wishes to hear of post in fruit or pork shop.  James Carlisle made that.  Six and a half per cent dividend.  Made a big deal on Coates’s shares.  Ca’ canny.  Cunning old Scotch hunks.  All the toady news.  Our gracious and popular vicereine.  Bought the irish field now.  Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her confinement and rode out with the Ward Union staghounds at the enlargement yesterday at Rathoath.  Uneatable fox.  Pothunters too.  Fear injects juices make it tender enough for them.  Riding astride.  Sit her horse like a man.  Weightcarrying huntress.  No sidesaddle or pillion for her, not for Joe.  First to the meet and in at the death.  Strong as a brood mare some of those horsey women.  Swagger around livery stables.  Toss off a glass of brandy neat while you’d say knife.  That one at the Grosvenor this morning.  Up with her on the car:  wishswish.  Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it.  Think that pugnosed driver did it out of spite.  Who is this she was like?  O yes!  Mrs Miriam Dandrade