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His eyes rested on her vigorous hips. Woods his name is. Wonder what he does. Wife is oldish. New blood. No followers allowed. Strong pair of arms. Whacking a carpet on the clothesline. She does whack it, by George. The way her crooked skirt swings at each whack. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink.
Besides, there is a certain speciality in a doctor's way of looking at religion, if he compares his knowledge with his faith. But what is the speciality of a literary man on this particular subject? Other trades and professions might as well follow suit, and give us "The Religion of a Porkbutcher," or "The Faith of a Farmer," or "The Creed of a Constable."
The crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack by whack. The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the pile, wrapped up her prime sausages and made a red grimace. Now, my miss, he said. She tendered a coin, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out. Thank you, my miss. And one shilling threepence change. For you, please? Mr Bloom pointed quickly.
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