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BLOOM: Fish and taters. N. g. Ah! A few moments later he emerges from under the shutter, puffing Poldy, blowing Bloohoom. In each hand he holds a parcel, one containing a lukewarm pig's crubeen, the other a cold sheep's trotter, sprinkled with wholepepper. He gasps, standing upright. BLOOM: Stitch in my side. Why did I run? BLOOM: What is that? A flasher? Searchlight.
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