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Updated: May 21, 2025
She answered: Miss Kennedy, was Mr Boylan in while I was upstairs? She asked. Miss voice of Kennedy answered, a second teacup poised, her gaze upon a page: No. He was not. Miss gaze of Kennedy, heard, not seen, read on. Lenehan round the sandwichbell wound his round body round. Peep! Who's in the corner? No glance of Kennedy rewarding him he yet made overtures. To mind her stops.
Nicely planed. Like the way it curves there. I wouldn't do anything at all in that line, Davy Byrne said. It ruined many a man, the same horses. Vintners' sweepstake. Licensed for the sale of beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the premises. Heads I win tails you lose. True for you, Nosey Flynn said. Unless you're in the know. There's no straight sport going now. Lenehan gets some good ones.
Lashings of stuff we put up: port wine and sherry and curacao to which we did ample justice. Fast and furious it was. After liquids came solids. Cold joints galore and mince pies... I know, M'Coy said. The year the missus was there... Lenehan linked his arm warmly. But wait till I tell you, he said.
Blazes Boylan and Lenehan sprawl swaying on the sideseats. The Ormond boots crouches behind on the axle. LENEHAN: Ho! What do I here behold? Were you brushing the cobwebs off a few quims? LENEHAN: A good night's work. Up to sample or your money back. Lobster and mayonnaise. Ah! Mrs Bloom dressed yet? The last articles... I have a little private business with your wife, you understand?
I had half a crown myself, says Terry, on Zinfandel that Mr Flynn gave me. Lord Howard de Walden's. Twenty to one, says Lenehan. Such is life in an outhouse. Throwaway, says he. Takes the biscuit, and talking about bunions. Frailty, thy name is Sceptre.
God's curse on bitch's bastard. Tink to her pity cried a diner's bell. To the door of the bar and diningroom came bald Pat, came bothered Pat, came Pat, waiter of Ormond. Lager for diner. Lager without alacrity she served. With patience Lenehan waited for Boylan with impatience, for jinglejaunty blazes boy.
Lenehan stopped and leaned on the riverwall, panting with soft laughter. I'm weak, he gasped. M'Coy's white face smiled about it at instants and grew grave. Lenehan walked on again. He lifted his yachtingcap and scratched his hindhead rapidly. He glanced sideways in the sunlight at M'Coy. He's a cultured allroundman, Bloom is, he said seriously.
He followed M'Coy out across the tiny square of Crampton court. He's a hero, he said simply. I know, M'Coy said. The drain, you mean. Drain? Lenehan said. It was down a manhole. They passed Dan Lowry's musichall where Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, smiled on them from a poster a dauby smile.
Wait a shake, begged Lenehan, drinking quickly. I wanted to tell you. Tom Rochford... Come on to blazes, said Blazes Boylan, going. Lenehan gulped to go. Got the horn or what? he said. Wait. I'm coming. He followed the hasty creaking shoes but stood by nimbly by the threshold, saluting forms, a bulky with a slender. How do you do, Mr Dollard? Eh? How do? How do?
A tear fell: one only. A whacking fine whip, said Lenehan, is W. Lane. Four winners yesterday and three today. What rider is like him? Mount him on the camel or the boisterous buffalo the victory in a hack canter is still his. But let us bear it as was the ancient wont. Mercy on the luckless! Poor Sceptre! he said with a light sigh. She is not the filly that she was.
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