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American soap I bought: elderflower. Cosy smell of her bathwater. Funny she looked soaped all over. Shapely too. Now photography. Poor papa's daguerreotype atelier he told me of. Hereditary taste. He walked along the curbstone. Stream of life. What was the name of that priestylooking chap was always squinting in when he passed? Weak eyes, woman. Stopped in Citron's saint Kevin's parade.
Olives are packed in jars, eh? I have a few left from Andrews. Molly spitting them out. Knows the taste of them now. Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates. Citrons too. Wonder is poor Citron still in Saint Kevin's parade. And Mastiansky with the old cither. Pleasant evenings we had then. Molly in Citron's basketchair.
That's what life is after all. How quickly he does that job. Practice makes perfect. Seems to see with his fingers. Mr Bloom passed on out of the clanking noises through the gallery on to the landing. Now am I going to tram it out all the way and then catch him out perhaps. Better phone him up first. Number? Yes. Same as Citron's house. Twentyeight. Twentyeight double four.
"Know'st thou the land that bears the citron's bloom? The golden orange glows 'mid verdant gloom, A gentle wind from heaven's deep azure blows, The myrtle low, and high the laurel grows, Know'st thou the land? Oh, there! oh, there! Would I with thee, my best beloved, repair." ...
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