Bloom:  Let’s walk on.  Shall us?

Mrs Breen:  Let’s.

(The bawd makes an unheeded sign.  Bloom walks on with Mrs Breen.  The
terrier follows, whining piteously, wagging his tail.)

The bawd:  Jewman’s melt!

Bloom:  (In an oatmeal sporting suit, A sprig of Woodbine in the Lapel, tony buff shirt, shepherd’s plaid saint Andrew’s cross SCARFTIE, white spats, fawn dustcoat on his arm, tawny red brogues, fieldglasses in bandolier and A grey billycock hat) Do you remember a long long time, years and years ago, just after Milly, Marionette we called her, was weaned when we all went together to Fairyhouse races, was it?

Mrs Breen:  (In smart Saxe TAILORMADE, white velours hat and spider veil)
Leopardstown.

Bloom:  I mean, Leopardstown.  And Molly won seven shillings on a three year old named Nevertell and coming home along by Foxrock in that old fiveseater shanderadan of a waggonette you were in your heyday then and you had on that new hat of white velours with a surround of molefur that Mrs Hayes advised you to buy because it was marked down to nineteen and eleven, a bit of wire and an old rag of velveteen, and I’ll lay you what you like she did it on purpose ...

Mrs Breen:  She did, of course, the cat!  Don’t tell me!  Nice adviser!

Bloom:  Because it didn’t suit you one quarter as well as the other ducky little tammy toque with the bird of paradise wing in it that I admired on you and you honestly looked just too fetching in it though it was a pity to kill it, you cruel naughty creature, little mite of a thing with a heart the size of a fullstop.

Mrs Breen:  (Squeezes his arm, Simpers) Naughty cruel I was!

Bloom:  (Low, secretly, ever more rapidly) And Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of Mrs Joe Gallaher’s lunch basket.  Frankly, though she had her advisers or admirers, I never cared much for her style.  She was ...

Mrs Breen:  Too ...

Bloom:  Yes.  And Molly was laughing because Rogers and Maggot O’Reilly were mimicking a cock as we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius Moses, the tea merchant, drove past us in a gig with his daughter, Dancer Moses was her name, and the poodle in her lap bridled up and you asked me if I ever heard or read or knew or came across ...