Page 487 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

Jingle jaunted down the quays. Blazes sprawled on
bounding tyres.
Liver and bacon. Steak and kidney pie. Right, sir.
Right, Pat.

Mrs Marion. Met him pike hoses. Smell of burn. Of
Paul de Kock. Nice name he.
—What’s this her name was? A buxom lassy. Marion ...
—Tweedy.
—Yes. Is she alive?
—And kicking.
—She was a daughter of ...
—Daughter of the regiment.
—Yes, begad. I remember the old drummajor.
Mr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff
after
—Irish? I don’t know, faith. Is she, Simon?
Puff after stiff, a puff, strong, savoury, crackling.
—Buccinator muscle is ... What? ... Bit rusty ... O, she
is ... My Irish Molly, O.
He puffed a pungent plumy blast.
—From the rock of Gibraltar... all the way.
They pined in depth of ocean shadow, gold by the
beerpull, bronze by maraschino, thoughtful all two. Mina

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