Page 550 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

Terry came down and tipped him the wink to keep
quiet, that they didn’t want that kind of talk in a
respectable licensed premises. And Bob Doran starts doing
the weeps about Paddy Dignam, true as you’re there.

—The finest man, says he, snivelling, the finest purest
character.
The tear is bloody near your eye. Talking through his
bloody hat. Fitter for him go home to the little
sleepwalking bitch he married, Mooney, the bumbailiff’s
daughter, mother kept a kip in Hardwicke street, that used
to be stravaging about the landings Bantam Lyons told me
that was stopping there at two in the morning without a
stitch on her, exposing her person, open to all comers, fair
field and no favour.
—The noblest, the truest, says he. And he’s gone, poor
little Willy, poor little Paddy Dignam.
And mournful and with a heavy heart he bewept the
extinction of that beam of heaven.
Old Garryowen started growling again at Bloom that
was skeezing round the door.
—Come in, come on, he won’t eat you, says the
citizen.
So Bloom slopes in with his cod’s eye on the dog and
he asks Terry was Martin Cunningham there.

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