Her stockings are loose over her ankles. I detest that： so tasteless， Those literary etherial people they are all. Dreamy， cloudy， symbolistic. Esthetes they are. I wouldn't be surprised if it was that kind of food you see produces the like waves of the brain the poetical. For example one of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts； you couldn't squeeze a line of poetry out of him. Don't know what poetry is even. Must be in a certain mood.
The dreamy cloudy gull
Waves o'er the waters dull.
He crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the window of Yeates and Son， pricing the field glasses. Or will I drop into old Harris's and have a chat with young Sinclair？ Well-mannered fellow. Probably at his lunch. Must get those old glasses of mine set right. Grz lenses， six guineas. Germans making their way everywhere. Sell on easy terms to capture trade. Undercutting. Might chance on a pair in the railway lost property office. Astonishing the things people leave behind them in trains and cloak rooms. What do they be thinking about？ Women too. Incredible. year travelling to Ennis had to pick up that farmer's daughter's bag and hand it to her at Limerick junction. Unclaimed money too. There's a little watch up there on the roof of the bank to test those glasses by.
His lids came down on the lower rims of his irides. Can't see it. If you imagine it's there you can almost see it. Can't see it.
He faced about and， standing between the awnings， held out his right hand at arm's length towards the sun. Wanted to try that often. Yes： completely. The tip of his little finger blotted out the sun's disk. Must be the focus where the rays cross. If I had black glasses. Interesting. There was a lot of talk about those sunspots when we were in Lombard street west. Terrific explosions they are. There will be a total eclipse this year： autumn some time.
Now that I come to think of it， that ball falls at Greenwich time. It's the clock is worked by an electric wire from Dunsink. Must go out there some first Saturday of the month. If I could get art introduction to professor Joly or learn up something about his family. That would do to： man always feels complimented. Flattery where least expected. Nobleman proud to be descended from some king's mistress. His foremother. Lay it on with a trowel. Cap in hand goes through the land. Not go in and blurt out what you know you're not to： what's parallax？ Show this gentleman the door.
Ah.
His hand fell again to his side.
Never know anything about it. Waste of time. Gasballs spinning about， crossing each other， passing. Same old dingdong always. Gas， then solid， then world， then cold， then dead shell drifting around， frozen rock like that pineapple rock. The moon. Must be a new moon， she said. I believe there is.
He went on by la Maison Claire.
Wait. The full moon was the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly there is a new moon. Walking down by the Tolka. Not bad for a Fairview moon. She was humming： The young May moon she's beaming， love. He other side of her. Elbow， arm. He. Glowworm's la-amp is gleaming， love. Touch. Fingers. Asking. Answer. Yes.
Stop. Stop. If it was it was. Must.
Mr Bloom， quick breathing， slowlier walking， passed Adam court.
With a keep quiet relief， his eyes took note： this is street here middle of the day Bob Doran's bottle shoulders. On his annual bend， M'Coy said. They drink in order to say or do something or cherchez la femme. Up in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then the rest of the year as sober as a judge.
Yes. Thought so. Sloping into the Empire. Gone. Plain soda would do him good. Where Pat Kinsella had his Harp theatre before Whitbred ran the Queen's. Broth of a boy. Dion Boucicault business with his harvestmoon face in a poky bonnet. Three Purty Maids from School. How time flies eh？ Showing long red pantaloons under his skirts. Drinkers， drinking， laughed spluttering， their drink against their breath. More power， Pat. Coarse red： fun for drunkards： guffaw and smoke. Take off that white hat. His parboiled eyes. Where is he now？ Beggar somewhere. The harp that once did starve us all.
I was happier then. Or was that I？ Or am I now I？ Twenty-eight I was. She twentythree when we left Lombard street west something changed. Could never like it again after Rudy. Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then？ Just beginning then. Would you？ Are you not happy in your home， you poor little naughty boy？ Wants to sew on buttons for me. I must answer. Write it in the library.
Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses. Muslin prints， silk， dames and dowagers， jingle of harnesses， hoofthuds lowringing in the baking causeway. Thick feet that woman has in the white stockings. Hope the rain mucks them up on her. Country bred chawbacon. All the beef to the heels were in. Always gives a woman clumsy feet. Molly looks out of plumb.
He passed， dallying， the windows of Brown Thomas， silk mercers. Cascades of ribbons. Flimsy China silks. A tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin： lustrous blood. The huguenots brought that here. La causa è santa！ Tara tara. Great chorus that. Tara. Must be washed in rainwater. Meyerbeer. Tara： bom bom bom.
Pincushions. I'm a long time threatening to buy one. Stick them all over the place. Needles in window curtains.
He bared slightly his left forearm. Scrape： nearly gone. Not today anyhow. Must go back for that lotion. For her birthday perhaps. Junejulyaugseptember eighth. Nearly three months off. Then she mightn't like it. Women won't pick up pins. Say it cuts lo.
Gleaming silks， petticoats on slim brass rails， rays of flat silk stockings.
Useless to go back. Had to be. Tell me all.
High voices. Sunwarm silk. Jingling harnesses. All for a woman， home and houses， silk webs， silver， rich fruits， spicy from Jaffa. Agendath Netaim. Wealth of the world.
