Page 501 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

heatseated. Cloche. Sonnez la. Cloche. Sonnez la. Slower the
mare went up the hill by the Rotunda, Rutland square.
Too slow for Boylan, blazes Boylan, impatience Boylan,
joggled the mare.

An afterclang of Cowley’s chords closed, died on the
air made richer.
And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold
Bloom his cider drank, Lidwell his Guinness, second
gentleman said they would partake of two more tankards if
she did not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving, coral
lips, at first, at second. She did not mind.
—Seven days in jail, Ben Dollard said, on bread and
water. Then you’d sing, Simon, like a garden thrush.
Lionel Simon, singer, laughed. Father Bob Cowley
played. Mina Kennedy served. Second gentleman paid.
Tom Kernan strutted in. Lydia, admired, admired. But
Bloom sang dumb.
Admiring.
Richie, admiring, descanted on that man’s glorious
voice. He remembered one night long ago. Never forget
that night. Si sang ’Twas rank and fame: in Ned Lambert’s
‘twas. Good God he never heard in all his life a note like
that he never did then false one we had better part so clear so

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