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John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead. The barrow turned into a side lane. A portly man, ambushed among the grasses, raised his hat in homage. The gravediggers touched their caps. John O'Connell, Mr Power said pleased. He never forgets a friend. Mr O'Connell shook all their hands in silence. Mr Dedalus said: I am come to pay you another visit.
He was in John Henry Menton's and then he went round to Collis and Ward's and then Tom Rochford met him and sent him round to the subsheriff's for a lark. O God, I've a pain laughing. U. p: up. The long fellow gave him an eye as good as a process and now the bloody old lunatic is gone round to Green street to look for a G man. When is long John going to hang that fellow in Mountjoy? says Joe.
She took back the card, sighing. And now he's going round to Mr Menton's office. He's going to take an action for ten thousand pounds, he says. She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch. Same blue serge dress she had two years ago, the nap bleaching. Seen its best days. Wispish hair over her ears. And that dowdy toque: three old grapes to take the harm out of it.
Denis Breen with his tomes, weary of having waited an hour in John Henry Menton's office, led his wife over O'Connell bridge, bound for the office of Messrs Collis and Ward. Mr Kernan approached Island street. Times of the troubles. Must ask Ned Lambert to lend me those reminiscences of sir Jonah Barrington. When you look back on it all now in a kind of retrospective arrangement. Gaming at Daly's.
And that other old mosey lunatic in those duds. Hard time she must have with him. U.P.: up. I'll take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding. Wrote it for a lark in the Scotch house I bet anything. Round to Menton's office. His oyster eyes staring at the postcard. Be a feast for the gods. He passed the Irish Times. There might be other answers Iying there. Like to answer them all.
Rather lowsized. Dignam of Menton's office that was, Martin Cunningham said. Long John Fanning could not remember him. Clatter of horsehoofs sounded from the air. What's that? Martin Cunningham said. All turned where they stood. John Wyse Nolan came down again. From the cool shadow of the doorway he saw the horses pass Parliament street, harness and glossy pasterns in sunlight shimmering.
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