(HE GAZES AHEAD, READING ON THE WALL A SCRAWLED CHALK LEGEND Wet Dream
AND A PHALLIC DESIGN.) Odd! Molly drawing on the frosted carriagepane at
Kingstown. What's that like? (GAUDY DOLLWOMEN LOLL IN THE LIGHTED
DOORWAYS, IN WINDOW EMBRASURES, SMOKING BIRDSEYE CIGARETTES. THE ODOUR OF
THE SICKSWEET WEED FLOATS TOWARDS HIM IN SLOW ROUND OVALLING WREATHS.)
THE WREATHS: Sweet are the sweets. Sweets of sin.
BLOOM: My spine's a bit limp. Go or turn? And this food? Eat it and get
all pigsticky. Absurd I am. Waste of money. One and eightpence too much.
(THE RETRIEVER DRIVES A COLD SNIVELLING MUZZLE AGAINST HIS HAND, WAGGING
HIS TAIL.) Strange how they take to me. Even that brute today. Better
speak to him first. Like women they like RENCONTRES. Stinks like a
polecat. CHACUN SON GOUT. He might be mad. Dogdays. Uncertain in his
movements. Good fellow! Fido! Good fellow! Garryowen! (THE WOLFDOG
SPRAWLS ON HIS BACK, WRIGGLING OBSCENELY WITH BEGGING PAWS, HIS LONG
BLACK TONGUE LOLLING OUT.) Influence of his surroundings. Give and have
done with it. Provided nobody. (CALLING ENCOURAGING WORDS HE SHAMBLES
BACK WITH A FURTIVE POACHER'S TREAD, DOGGED BY THE SETTER INTO A DARK
STALESTUNK CORNER. HE UNROLLS ONE PARCEL AND GOES TO DUMP THE CRUBEEN
SOFTLY BUT HOLDS BACK AND FEELS THE TROTTER.) Sizeable for threepence.
But then I have it in my left hand. Calls for more effort. Why? Smaller
from want of use. O, let it slide. Two and six.
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