Perhaps they get a man smell off us.  What though?  Cigary gloves long John had on his desk the other day.  Breath?  What you eat and drink gives that.  No.  Mansmell, I mean.  Must be connected with that because priests that are supposed to be are different.  Women buzz round it like flies round treacle.  Railed off the altar get on to it at any cost.  The tree of forbidden priest.  O, father, will you?  Let me be the first to.  That diffuses itself all through the body, permeates.  Source of life.  And it’s extremely curious the smell.  Celery sauce.  Let me.

Mr Bloom inserted his nose.  Hm.  Into the.  Hm.  Opening of his waistcoat.  Almonds or.  No.  Lemons it is.  Ah no, that’s the soap.

O by the by that lotion.  I knew there was something on my mind.  Never went back and the soap not paid.  Dislike carrying bottles like that hag this morning.  Hynes might have paid me that three shillings.  I could mention Meagher’s just to remind him.  Still if he works that paragraph.  Two and nine.  Bad opinion of me he’ll have.  Call tomorrow.  How much do I owe you?  Three and nine?  Two and nine, sir.  Ah.  Might stop him giving credit another time.  Lose your customers that way.  Pubs do.  Fellows run up a bill on the slate and then slinking around the back streets into somewhere else.

Here’s this nobleman passed before.  Blown in from the bay.  Just went as far as turn back.  Always at home at dinnertime.  Looks mangled out:  had a good tuck in.  Enjoying nature now.  Grace after meals.  After supper walk a mile.  Sure he has a small bank balance somewhere, government sit.  Walk after him now make him awkward like those newsboys me today.  Still you learn something.  See ourselves as others see us.  So long as women don’t mock what matter?  That’s the way to find out.  Ask yourself who is he now.  The mystery man on the beach, prize titbit story by Mr Leopold Bloom.  Payment at the rate of one guinea per column.  And that fellow today at the graveside in the brown macintosh.  Corns on his kismet however.  Healthy perhaps absorb all the.  Whistle brings rain they say.  Must be some somewhere.  Salt in the Ormond damp.  The body feels the atmosphere.  Old Betty’s joints are on the rack.  Mother Shipton’s prophecy that is about ships around they fly in the twinkling.  No.  Signs of rain it is.  The royal reader.  And distant hills seem coming nigh.

Howth.  Bailey light.  Two, four, six, eight, nine.  See.  Has to change or they might think it a house.  Wreckers.  Grace Darling.  People afraid of the dark.  Also glowworms, cyclists:  lightingup time.  Jewels diamonds flash better.  Women.  Light is a kind of reassuring.  Not going to hurt you.  Better now of course than long ago.  Country roads.  Run you through the small guts for nothing.  Still two types there are you bob against.  Scowl or smile.  Pardon!  Not at all.  Best time to spray plants too in the shade after the sun.  Some light still.  Red