0 Ulysses
feet that woman has in the white stockings. Hope the rain
mucks them up on her. Countrybred chawbacon. All the
beef to the heels were in. Always gives a woman clumsy feet.
Molly looks out of plumb.
He passed, dallying, the windows of Brown Thomas, silk
mercers. Cascades of ribbons. Flimsy China silks. A tilted
urn poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin:
lustrous blood. The huguenots brought that here. La causa
è santa! Tara tara. Great chorus that. Taree tara. Must be
washed in rainwater. Meyerbeer. Tara: bom bom bom.
Pincushions. I’m a long time threatening to buy one.
Sticking them all over the place. Needles in window cur-
tains.
He bared slightly his left forearm. Scrape: nearly gone.
Not today anyhow. Must go back for that lotion. For her
birthday perhaps. Junejulyaugseptember eighth. Nearly
three months off. Then she mightn’t like it. Women won’t
pick up pins. Say it cuts lo.
Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat
silk stockings.
Useless to go back. Had to be. Tell me all.
High voices. Sunwarm silk. Jingling harnesses. All for a
woman, home and houses, silkwebs, silver, rich fruits spicy
from Jaffa. Agendath Netaim. Wealth of the world.
A warm human plumpness settled down on his brain.
His brain yielded. Perfume of embraces all him assailed.
With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore.
Duke street. Here we are. Must eat. The Burton. Feel bet-
ter then.