Page 360 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

—Murder you! he laughed.
Harsh gargoyle face that warred against me over our
mess of hash of lights in rue Saint-André-des-Arts. In
words of words for words, palabras. Oisin with Patrick.

Faunman he met in Clamart woods, brandishing a
winebottle. C’est vendredi saint! Murthering Irish. His
image, wandering, he met. I mine. I met a fool i’the
forest.
—Mr Lyster, an attendant said from the door ajar.
— ... in which everyone can find his own. So Mr
Justice Madden in his Diary of Master William Silence has
found the hunting terms ... Yes? What is it?
—There’s a gentleman here, sir, the attendant said,
coming forward and offering a card. From the Freeman.
He wants to see the files of the Kilkenny People for last
year.
—Certainly, certainly, certainly. Is the gentleman? ...
He took the eager card, glanced, not saw, laid down
unglanced, looked, asked, creaked, asked:
—Is he? ... O, there!
Brisk in a galliard he was off, out. In the daylit corridor
he talked with voluble pains of zeal, in duty bound, most
fair, most kind, most honest broadbrim.

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