--AS BAD AS OLD ANTONIO,
FOR HE LEFT ME ON MY OWNIO.
The face of a streetwalker glazed and haggard under a black straw hat
peered askew round the door of the shelter palpably reconnoitring on her
own with the object of bringing more grist to her mill. Mr Bloom,
scarcely knowing which way to look, turned away on the moment flusterfied
but outwardly calm, and, picking up from the table the pink sheet of the
Abbey street organ which the jarvey, if such he was, had laid aside, he
picked it up and looked at the pink of the paper though why pink. His
reason for so doing was he recognised on the moment round the door the
same face he had caught a fleeting glimpse of that afternoon on Ormond
quay, the partially idiotic female, namely, of the lane who knew the lady
in the brown costume does be with you (Mrs B.) and begged the chance of
his washing. Also why washing which seemed rather vague than not, your
washing. Still candour compelled him to admit he had washed his wife's
undergarments when soiled in Holles street and women would and did too a
man's similar garments initialled with Bewley and Draper's marking ink
(hers were, that is) if they really loved him, that is to say, love me,
love my dirty shirt. Still just then, being on tenterhooks, he desired
the female's room more than her company so it came as a genuine relief
when the keeper made her a rude sign to take herself off. Round the side
of the Evening Telegraph he just caught a fleeting glimpse of her face
round the side of the door with a kind of demented glassy grin showing
that she was not exactly all there, viewing with evident amusement the
group of gazers round skipper Murphy's nautical chest and then there was
no more of her.
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