Zoe:  There was a priest down here two nights ago to do his bit of business with his coat buttoned up.  You needn’t try to hide, I says to him.  I know you’ve a Roman collar.

Virag:  Perfectly logical from his standpoint.  Fall of man. (Harshly, his pupils waxing) To hell with the pope!  Nothing new under the sun.  I am the Virag who disclosed the Sex Secrets of Monks and Maidens.  Why I left the church of Rome.  Read the Priest, the Woman and the Confessional.  Penrose.  Flipperty Jippert. (He wriggles) Woman, undoing with sweet pudor her belt of rushrope, offers her allmoist yoni to man’s lingam.  Short time after man presents woman with pieces of jungle meat.  Woman shows joy and covers herself with featherskins.  Man loves her yoni fiercely with big lingam, the stiff one. (He cries) COACTUS VOLUI.  Then giddy woman will run about.  Strong man grapses woman’s wrist.  Woman squeals, bites, spucks.  Man, now fierce angry, strikes woman’s fat yadgana. (He chases his tail) Piffpaff!  Popo! (He stops, sneezes) Pchp! (He worries his butt) Prrrrrht!

Lynch:  I hope you gave the good father a penance.  Nine glorias for shooting a bishop.

Zoe:  (Spouts walrus smoke through her nostrils) He couldn’t get a connection.  Only, you know, sensation.  A dry rush.

Bloom:  Poor man!

Zoe:  (Lightly) Only for what happened him.

Bloom:  How?

Virag:  (A diabolic rictus of black luminosity contracting his visage, cranes his scraggy neck forward.  He lifts A mooncalf nozzle and howls.) VERFLUCHTE GOIM!  He had a father, forty fathers.  He never existed.  Pig God!  He had two left feet.  He was Judas Iacchia, a Libyan eunuch, the pope’s bastard. (He leans out on tortured forepaws, elbows bent rigid, his eye agonising in his flat SKULLNECK and yelps over the mute world) A son of a whore.  Apocalypse.

Kitty:  And Mary Shortall that was in the lock with the pox she got from Jimmy Pidgeon in the blue caps had a child off him that couldn’t swallow and was smothered with the convulsions in the mattress and we all subscribed for the funeral.

Philip drunk:  (Gravely) qui VOUS A Mis Dans CETTE FICHUE position, Philippe?

Philip sober:  (Gaily) C’ETAIT le Sacre pigeon, Philippe.

(Kitty UNPINS her hat and sets it down calmly, patting her henna hair.  And A prettier, A daintier head of winsome curls was never seen on A whore’s shoulders.  Lynch puts on her hat.  She whips it off.)