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Updated: June 26, 2025
The wife's advisers, I mean, says Bloom. Then he starts all confused mucking it up about mortgagor under the act like the lord chancellor giving it out on the bench and for the benefit of the wife and that a trust is created but on the other hand that Dignam owed Bridgeman the money and if now the wife or the widow contested the mortgagee's right till he near had the head of me addled with his mortgagor under the act.
Gob, that'd be a good pucking match to see. Myler Keogh, that's the chap sparring out to him with the green sash. Two bar entrance, soldiers half price. I could easy do a bunk on ma. Master Dignam on his left turned as he turned. That's me in mourning. When is it? May the twentysecond. Sure, the blooming thing is all over.
God's curse on you, he said sourly, whoever you are! You're blinder nor I am, you bitch's bastard! Opposite Ruggy O'Donohoe's Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, pawing the pound and a half of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, porksteaks he had been sent for, went along warm Wicklow street dawdling.
Down the edge of his Freeman baton ranged Bloom's, your other eye, scanning for where did I see that. Callan, Coleman, Dignam Patrick. Heigho! Heigho! Fawcett. Aha! Just I was looking... Hope he's not looking, cute as a rat. He held unfurled his Freeman. Can't see now. Remember write Greek ees. Bloom dipped, Bloo mur: dear sir. Dear Henry wrote: dear Mady. Got your lett and flow. Hell did I put?
A coffin bumped out on to the road. Burst open. Paddy Dignam shot out and rolling over stiff in the dust in a brown habit too large for him. Red face: grey now. Mouth fallen open. Asking what's up now. Quite right to close it. Looks horrid open. Then the insides decompose quickly. Much better to close up all the orifices. Yes, also. With wax. The sphincter loose. Seal up all.
I hope it wasn't any near relation. May as well get her sympathy. Dignam, Mr Bloom said. An old friend of mine. He died quite suddenly, poor fellow. Heart trouble, I believe. Funeral was this morning. Your funeral's tomorrow While you're coming through the rye. Diddlediddle dumdum Diddlediddle... Sad to lose the old friends, Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholily.
Eye out for other fellow always. Good fallback. Two strings to her bow. Why? I said. What's wrong with him? I said. Proud: rich: silk stockings. Yes, Mr Bloom said. He moved a little to the side of M'Coy's talking head. Getting up in a minute. What's wrong with him? He said. He's dead, he said. And, faith, he filled up. Is it Paddy Dignam? I said. I couldn't believe it when I heard it.
With Dignam, says Alf. Is it Paddy? says Joe. Yes, says Alf. Why? Don't you know he's dead? says Joe. Paddy Dignam dead! says Alf. Ay, says Joe. Sure I'm after seeing him not five minutes ago, says Alf, as plain as a pikestaff. Who's dead? says Bob Doran. You saw his ghost then, says Joe, God between us and harm. What? says Alf.
The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the Japanese. Stop and say a word: about the funeral perhaps. Sad thing about poor Dignam, Mr O'Rourke. Turning into Dorset street he said freshly in greeting through the doorway: Good day, Mr O'Rourke. Good day to you. Lovely weather, sir. 'Tis all that. Where do they get the money?
If London contains three millions at the present day, and Paris two millions, why should not a capital which had no rival, and which controlled at least one hundred and twenty millions of people? So that Pliny was not probably wrong when he said, "Si quis altitudinem tectorum addat, dignam profecto oestimationem concipiat, fateatur qui nullius urbis magnitudinem potuisse ei comparare."
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