Page 821 - ULYSSES

Ulysses

MYLES CRAWFORD: (His cock’s wattles wagging)
Hello, seventyseven eightfour. Hello. Freeman’s Urinal and
Weekly Arsewipe here. Paralyse Europe. You which?

Bluebags? Who writes? Is it Bloom?
(Mr Philip Beaufoy, palefaced, stands in the witnessbox, in
accurate morning dress, outbreast pocket with peak of handkerchief
showing, creased lavender trousers and patent boots. He carries a
large portfolio labelled Matcham’s Masterstrokes.)
BEAUFOY: (Drawls) No, you aren’t. Not by a long
shot if I know it. I don’t see it that’s all. No born
gentleman, no-one with the most rudimentary promptings
of a gentleman would stoop to such particularly loathsome
conduct. One of those, my lord. A plagiarist. A soapy
sneak masquerading as a litterateur. It’s perfectly obvious
that with the most inherent baseness he has cribbed some
of my bestselling copy, really gorgeous stuff, a perfect gem,
the love passages in which are beneath suspicion. The
Beaufoy books of love and great possessions, with which
your lordship is doubtless familiar, are a household word
throughout the kingdom.
BLOOM: (Murmurs with hangdog meekness glum) That
bit about the laughing witch hand in hand I take
exception to, if I may ...

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