Page 442 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

—And how is that basso profondo, Benjamin? Father
Cowley asked.
Cashel Boyle O’Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell,
murmuring, glassyeyed, strode past the Kildare street club.

Ben Dollard frowned and, making suddenly a chanter’s
mouth, gave forth a deep note.
—Aw! he said.
—That’s the style, Mr Dedalus said, nodding to its
drone.
—What about that? Ben Dollard said. Not too dusty?
What?
He turned to both.
—That’ll do, Father Cowley said, nodding also.
The reverend Hugh C. Love walked from the old
chapterhouse of saint Mary’s abbey past James and Charles
Kennedy’s, rectifiers, attended by Geraldines tall and
personable, towards the Tholsel beyond the ford of
hurdles.
Ben Dollard with a heavy list towards the shopfronts
led them forward, his joyful fingers in the air.
—Come along with me to the subsheriff’s office, he
said. I want to show you the new beauty Rock has for a
bailiff. He’s a cross between Lobengula and Lynchehaun.
He’s well worth seeing, mind you. Come along. I saw

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