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Hardly any men were seen on the line of march, but it was said that scouts were on every hill, and that pains were being taken to identify the Orangemen. It was also heard on the best authority that Mr. Ruttledge's herds had been threatened and ordered to quit his service by the mysterious agency which rules the rural mind of Mayo.
Sea, wind, leaves, thunder, waters, cows lowing, the cattlemarket, cocks, hens don't crow, snakes hissss. There's music everywhere. Ruttledge's door: ee creaking. No, that's noise. Minuet of Don Giovanni he's playing now. Court dresses of all descriptions in castle chambers dancing. Misery. Peasants outside. Green starving faces eating dockleaves. Nice that is.
All his brains are in the nape of his neck, Simon Dedalus says. Welts of flesh behind on him. Fat folds of neck, fat, neck, fat, neck. Don't you think his face is like Our Saviour? Red Murray whispered. The door of Ruttledge's office whispered: ee: cree. They always build one door opposite another for the wind to. Way in. Way out. Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: talking in the dusk.
On the brewery float bumped dullthudding barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of Prince's stores. There it is, Red Murray said. Alexander Keyes. Just cut it out, will you? Mr Bloom said, and I'll take it round to the Telegraph office. The door of Ruttledge's office creaked again.
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