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Ulysses

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<strong>Ulysses</strong><br />

we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius Moses, the tea<br />

merchant, drove past us in a gig with his daughter, Dancer<br />

Moses was her name, and the poodle in her lap bridled up<br />

and you asked me if I ever heard or read or knew or came<br />

across ...<br />

MRS BREEN: (Eagerly) Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.<br />

(She fades from his side. Followed by the whining dog he<br />

walks on towards hellsgates. In an archway a standing woman,<br />

bent forward, her feet apart, pisses cowily. Outside a shuttered<br />

pub a bunch of loiterers listen to a tale which their brokensnouted<br />

gaffer rasps out with raucous humour. An armless pair of them<br />

flop wrestling, growling, in maimed sodden playfight.)<br />

THE GAFFER: (Crouches, his voice twisted in his snout)<br />

And when Cairns came down from the scaffolding in<br />

Beaver street what was he after doing it into only into the<br />

bucket of porter that was there waiting on the shavings for<br />

Derwan’s plasterers.<br />

THE LOITERERS: (Guffaw with cleft palates) O jays!<br />

(Their paintspeckled hats wag. Spattered with size and lime of<br />

their lodges they frisk limblessly about him.)<br />

BLOOM: Coincidence too. They think it funny.<br />

Anything but that. Broad daylight. Trying to walk. Lucky<br />

no woman.<br />

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