Quarter to. There again: the overtone following through the air, a third.
Poor Dignam!
* * * * * * *
By lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past
Windmill lane, Leask's the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph office.
Could have given that address too. And past the sailors' home. He turned
from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime street.
By Brady's cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of offal
linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on
her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Tell him
if he smokes he won't grow. O let him! His life isn't such a bed of
roses. Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. Come home to ma, da. Slack
hour: won't be many there. He crossed Townsend street, passed the
frowning face of Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And past
Nichols' the undertaker. At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny
Kelleher bagged the job for O'Neill's. Singing with his eyes shut. Corny.
Met her once in the park. In the dark. What a lark. Police tout. Her name
and address she then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay. O, surely he
bagged it. Bury him cheap in a whatyoumaycall. With my tooraloom,
tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.
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