He turned and halted by the slanted bookcart.

—­Twopence each, the huckster said.  Four for sixpence.

Tattered pages.  The irish beekeeper.  Life and miracles of the cure’ of
ars.  Pocket guide to Killarney.

I might find here one of my pawned schoolprizes.  Stephano DEDALO, ALUMNO
Optimo, PALMAM FERENTI.

Father Conmee, having read his little hours, walked through the hamlet of
Donnycarney, murmuring vespers.

Binding too good probably.  What is this?  Eighth and ninth book of Moses.  Secret of all secrets.  Seal of King David.  Thumbed pages:  read and read.  Who has passed here before me?  How to soften chapped hands.  Recipe for white wine vinegar.  How to win a woman’s love.  For me this.  Say the following talisman three times with hands folded: 

—­Se El YILO Nebrakada Femininum!  Amor me Solo!  SANKTUS!  Amen.

Who wrote this?  Charms and invocations of the most blessed abbot Peter Salanka to all true believers divulged.  As good as any other abbot’s charms, as mumbling Joachim’s.  Down, baldynoddle, or we’ll wool your wool.

—­What are you doing here, Stephen?

Dilly’s high shoulders and shabby dress.

Shut the book quick.  Don’t let see.

—­What are you doing?  Stephen said.

A Stuart face of nonesuch Charles, lank locks falling at its sides.  It glowed as she crouched feeding the fire with broken boots.  I told her of Paris.  Late lieabed under a quilt of old overcoats, fingering a pinchbeck bracelet, Dan Kelly’s token.  Nebrakada Femininum.

—­What have you there?  Stephen asked.

—­I bought it from the other cart for a penny, Dilly said, laughing nervously.  Is it any good?

My eyes they say she has.  Do others see me so?  Quick, far and daring. 
Shadow of my mind.

He took the coverless book from her hand.  Chardenal’s French primer.

—­What did you buy that for? he asked.  To learn French?

She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips.

Show no surprise.  Quite natural.

—­Here, Stephen said.  It’s all right.  Mind Maggy doesn’t pawn it on you. 
I suppose all my books are gone.

—­Some, Dilly said.  We had to.

She is drowning.  Agenbite.  Save her.  Agenbite.  All against us.  She will drown me with her, eyes and hair.  Lank coils of seaweed hair around me, my heart, my soul.  Salt green death.

We.

Agenbite of inwit.  Inwit’s agenbite.

Misery!  Misery!

* * * * *

—­Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said.  How are things?

—­Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.

They clasped hands loudly outside Reddy and Daughter’s.  Father Cowley brushed his moustache often downward with a scooping hand.