BLOOM: Molly!
MARION: Welly? Mrs Marion from this out, my dear man, when you speak to
me. (SATIRICALLY) Has poor little hubby cold feet waiting so long?
BLOOM: (SHIFTS FROM FOOT TO FOOT) No, no. Not the least little bit.
(HE BREATHES IN DEEP AGITATION, SWALLOWING GULPS OF AIR, QUESTIONS,
HOPES, CRUBEENS FOR HER SUPPER, THINGS TO TELL HER, EXCUSE, DESIRE,
SPELLBOUND. A COIN GLEAMS ON HER FOREHEAD. ON HER FEET ARE JEWELLED
TOERINGS. HER ANKLES ARE LINKED BY A SLENDER FETTERCHAIN. BESIDE HER A
CAMEL, HOODED WITH A TURRETING TURBAN, WAITS. A SILK LADDER OF
INNUMERABLE RUNGS CLIMBS TO HIS BOBBING HOWDAH. HE AMBLES NEAR WITH
DISGRUNTLED HINDQUARTERS. FIERCELY SHE SLAPS HIS HAUNCH, HER GOLDCURB
WRISTBANGLES ANGRILING, SCOLDING HIM IN MOORISH.)
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