Windy night that was I went to fetch her there was that lodge meeting on about those lottery tickets after Goodwin's concert in the supper room or oakroom of the mansion house。 He and I behind。 Sheet of her music blew out of my hand against the high school railings。 Lucky it didn't。 Thing like that spoils the effect of a night for her。 Professor Goodwin linking her in front。 Shaky on his pins； poor old sot。 His farewell concerts。 Positively last appearance on any stage。 May be for months and may be for never。 Remember her laughing at the wind； her blizzard collar up。 Corner of Harcourt road remember that gust？ Brrfoo！ Blew up all her skirts and her boa nearly smothered old Goodwin。 She did get flushed in the wind。 Remember when we got home raking up the fire and frying up those pieces of lap of mutton for her supper with the Chutney sauce she liked。 And the mulled rum。 Could see her in the bedroom from the hearth unclamping the busk of her stays。 White。
Swish and soft flop her stays made on the bed。 Always warm from her。 Always liked to let herself out。 Sitting there after till near two； taking out her hairpins。 Milly tucked up in beddyhouse。 Happy。 Happy。 That was the night。
O； Mr Bloom； how do you do？
Oh； how do you do； Mrs Breen？
No use plaining。 How is Molly those times？ Haven't seen her for ages。
In the pink； Mr Bloom said gaily； Milly has a position down in Mullingar； you know。
Go away！ Isn't that grand for her？
Yes； in a photographer's there。 Getting on like a house on fire。 How are all your charges？
All on the baker's list； Mrs Breen said。
How many has she？ No other in sight。
You're in black I see。 You have no。。。
No； Mr Bloom said。 I have just e from a funeral。
Going to crop up all day； I foresee。 Who's dead； when and what did he die of？ Turn up like a bad penny。
o dear me； Mrs Breen said； I hope it wasn't any near relation。
May as well get her sympathy。
Dignam； Mr Bloom said。 An old friend of mine。 He died quite suddenly； poor fellow。 Heart trouble； I believe。 Funeral was this morning。
Your funeral's tomorrow
While you're ing through the rye。
Diddlediddle dumdum
Diddlediddle。。。
Sad to lose the old friends； Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholily。
Now that's quite enough about that。 Just quietly： husband。
And your lord and master？
Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes。 Hasn't lost them anyhow。
O； don't be talking； she said。 He's a caution to rattlesnakes。 He's in there now with his lawbooks finding out the law of libel。 He has me heartscalded。 Wait till I show you。
Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured out from Harrison's。 The heavy noonreek tickled the top of Mr Bloom's gullet。 Want to make good pastry； butter； best flour； Demerara sugar； or they'd taste it with the hot tea。 Or is it from her？ A barefoot arab stood over the grating； breathing in the fumes。 Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way。 Pleasure or pain is it？ Penny dinner。 Knife and fork chained to the table。
Opening her handbag； chipped leather； hatpin： ought to have a guard on those things。 Stick it in a chap's eye in the tram。 Rummaging。 Open。 Money。 Please take one。 Devils if they lose sixpence。 Raise Cain。 Husband barging。 Where's the ten shillings I gave you on Monday？ Are you feeding your little brother's family？ Soiled handkerchief： medicinebottle。 Pastile that was fell。 What is she？。。。
There must be a new moon out； she said。 He's always bad then。 Do you know what he did last night？
Her hand ceased to rummage。 Her eyes fixed themselves on him wide in alarm； yet smiling。
What？ Mr Bloom asked。
Let her speak。 Look straight in her eyes。 I believe you。 Trust me。
Woke me up in the night； she said。 Dream he had； a nightmare。
Indiges。
Said the ace of spades was walking up the stairs。
The ace of spades！ Mr Bloom said。
She took a folded postcard from her handbag。
Read that； she said。 He got it this morning。
What is it？ Mr Bloom asked； taking the card。 U。P。？
U。P。： up； she said。 Someone taking a rise out of him。 It's a great shame for them whoever he is。
Indeed it is； Mr Bloom said。
She took back the card； sighing。
And now he's going round to Mr Menton's office。 He's going to take an action for ten thousand pounds； he says。
She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch。
Same blue serge dress she had two years ago； the nap bleaching。 Seen its best days。 Wispish hair over her ears。 And that dowdy toque； three old grapes to take the harm out of it。 Shabby genteel。 She used to be a tasty dresser。 Lines round her mouth。 Only a year or so older than Molly。
See the eye that woman gave her； passing。 Cruel。 The unfair sex。
He looked still at her； holding back behind his look his discontent。 Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny。 I'm hungry too。 Flakes of pastry on the gusset of her dress： daub of sugary flour stuck to her cheek。 Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings； rich fruit interior。 Josie Powell that was。 In Luke Doyle's long ago； Dolphin's Barn； the charades。 U。P。： up。
Change the subject。
Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy； Mr Bloom asked。
Mina Purefoy？ she said。
Philip Beaufoy I was thinking。 Playgoers' club。 Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke。 Did I pull the chain？ Yes。 The last act。
Yes。
I just called to ask on the way in is she over it。 She's in the lying…in hospital in Holles street。 Dr Horne got her in。 She's three days bad now。
O； Mr Bloom said。 I'm sorry to hear that。
Yes； Mrs Breen said。 And a houseful of kids at home。 It's a very stiff birth； the nurse told me。
O； Mr Bloom said。
His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news。 His tongue clacked in passion。 Dth！ Dth！
I'm sorry to hear that； he said。 Poor thing！ Three days！ That's terrible for her。
Mrs Breen nodded。
She was taken bad on the Tuesday。。。
Mr Bloom touched her funnybone gently； warning her。
Mind！ Let this man pass。
A bony form strode along the curbstone from the river； staring with a rapt gaze into the sunlight through a heavy stringed glass。 Tight as a skullpiece a tiny hat gripped his head。 From his arm a folded dustcoat； a stick and an umbrella dangled to his stride。
Watch him； Mr Bloom said。 He always walks outside the lampposts。 Watch！
Who is he if it's a fair question； Mrs Breen asked。 Is he dotty？
His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell； Mr Bloom said； smiling。 Watch！
He has enough of them； she said。 Denis will be like that one of these days。
She broke off suddenly。
There he is； she said。 I must go after him。 Goodbye。 Remember me to Molly； won't you？
I will； Mr Bloom said。
He watched her dodge through passers towards the shop…fronts。 Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of Harrison's hugging two heavy tomes to his ribs。 Blown in from the bay。 Like old times。 He suffered her to overtake him without surprise and thrust his dull grey beard towards her； his loose jaw wagging as he spoke earnestly。
Meshuggah。 Off his chump。
Mr Bloom walked on again easily； seeing ahead of him in sunlight the tight skullpiece； the dangling stick； umbrella； dustcoat。 Going the two days。 Watch him！ Out he goes again。 One way of getting on in the world。 And that other old mosey lunatic in those duds。 Hard time she must have with him。
U。P。： up。 I'll take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding。 Wrote it for a lark in the Scotch house； I bet anything。 Round to Menton's office。 His oyster eyes staring at the postcard。 Be a feast for the gods。
He passed the Irish Times。 There might be other answers lying there。 Like to answer them all。 Good system for criminals。 Code。 At their lunch now。 Clerk with the glasses there doesn't know me。 O； leave them there to simmer。 Enough bother wading through forty…four of them。 Wanted smart lady typist to aid gentleman in literary work。 I called you naughty darling because I do not like that other world。 Please tell me what is the meaning。 Please tell me what perfume does your wife。 Tell me who made the world。 The way they spring those questions on you。 And the other one Lizzie Twigg。 My literary efforts have had the good fortune to meet with the approval of the eminent poet A。 E。 （Mr Geo Russell）。 No time to do her hair drinking sloppy tea with a book of poetry。
Best paper by long chalks for a small ad。 Got the provinces now。 Cook and general； exc cuisine； housemaid kept。 Wanted live man for spirit counter。 Resp girl （R。 C。） wishes to hear of post in fruit or pork shop。 James Carlisle made that。 Six and a half percent dividend。 Made a big deal on Coates's shares。 Ca'canny。 Cunning old Scotch hunks。 All the toady news。 Our gracious and popular vicereine。 Bought the Irish Field now。 Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her confinement and rode out with the Ward Union staghounds at the enlargement yesterday at Rathoath。 Uneatable fox。 Pothunters too。 Fear injects juices make it tender enough for them。 Riding astride。 Sit her horse like a man。 Weightcarrying huntress。 No sidesaddle or pillion for her； not for Joe。 First to the meet and in at the death。 Strong as a brood mare some of those horsey women。 Swagger around livery stables。 Toss off a glass of brandy neat while you'd say knife。 That one at the Grosvenor this morning。 Up with her on the car： wishwish。 Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it。 Think that pugnosed driver did it out of spite。 Who is this she was like？ O yes？ Mrs Miriam Dandrade that sold me her old wraps and black underclothes in the Shelbourne hotel。 Divorced Spanish American。 Didn't take a feather out of her my handling them。 As if I was her clotheshorse。 Saw her in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park ranger got me in with Whelan of the Express。 Scavenging what the quality left。 High tea。 Mayonnaise I poured on the plums thinking it was custard。 Her ears ought to have tingled for a few weeks after。 Want to be a bull for her。 Born courtesan。 No nursery work for her； thanks。
Poor Mrs Purefoy！ Methodist husband。 Method in his madness。 Saffron bun and milk and soda lunch in the educational dairy。 Eating with a stopwatch； thirtytwo chews to the minute。 Still his muttonchop whiskers grew。 Supposed to be well connected。 Theodore's cousin in Dublin Castle。 One tony relative in every