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"Vat you mean by dat vink, anyhow?" demanded the elder. "Say," said the boy, confidentially "honest now. How about you and me? Five hundred dollars if I had your beard. You've got a record and I've got a future. And my bloom's on me rich, without a scratch. How many dollars you gif me for dat bloom?" The sparrow-hawk sailed into a freakish imitation of his master.
The trajectories of their, first sequent, then simultaneous, urinations were dissimilar: Bloom's longer, less irruent, in the incomplete form of the bifurcated penultimate alphabetical letter, who in his ultimate year at High School had been capable of attaining the point of greatest altitude against the whole concurrent strength of the institution, 210 scholars: Stephen's higher, more sibilant, who in the ultimate hours of the previous day had augmented by diuretic consumption an insistent vesical pressure.
That is why, even as she moved up from the rooming to the boarding-house and down from the third-floor back to the second-story front, there was always under Clara Bloom's single bed the steamer-trunk scarcely unpacked, and in her heart the fear that, after all, this might not be transiency, but home. That is why, too, she paid her board by the week and used printed visiting-cards.
It is true his property was not restored to him; but that mattered little now. He had created a new property, as was testified by the vast pyramid of ivory that stood under the shadow of the great nwana-tree! Nothing remained but to transport this shining pile to a market, and a splendid fortune would be the result. And Von Bloom's ingenuity found the means for bringing it to market.
I was going to throw it away that moment. Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms. I'll risk it, he said. Here, thanks. He sped off towards Conway's corner. God speed scut. Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soap in it, smiling. Silly lips of that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of it lately.
We have all been there, Martin Cunningham said broadly. His eyes met Mr Bloom's eyes. He caressed his beard, adding: Well, nearly all of us. Mr Bloom began to speak with sudden eagerness to his companions' faces. That's an awfully good one that's going the rounds about Reuben J and the son. About the boatman? Mr Power asked. Yes. Isn't it awfully good? What is that? Mr Dedalus asked.
Having set the halffilled kettle on the now burning coals, why did he return to the stillflowing tap? What reason did Stephen give for declining Bloom's offer?
Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a whirl of wild newsboys near the offices of the Irish Catholic and Dublin Penny Journal, called: Mr Crawford! A moment! Telegraph! Racing special! What is it? Myles Crawford said, falling back a pace. A newsboy cried in Mr Bloom's face: Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! A child bit by a bellows!
At Stephen's suggestion, at Bloom's instigation both, first Stephen, then Bloom, in penumbra urinated, their sides contiguous, their organs of micturition reciprocally rendered invisible by manual circumposition, their gazes, first Bloom's, then Stephen's, elevated to the projected luminous and semiluminous shadow. Similarly?
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