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ing. Nice touch. Must be Cowley. Musical. Knows whatever
note you play. Bad breath he has, poor chap. Stopped.
Miss Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, bowed to suave
solicitor, George Lidwell, gentleman, entering. Good after-
noon. She gave her moist (a lady’s) hand to his firm clasp.
Afternoon. Yes, she was back. To the old dingdong again.
—Your friends are inside, Mr Lidwell.
George Lidwell, suave, solicited, held a lydiahand.
Bloom ate liv as said before. Clean here at least. That chap
in the Burton, gummy with gristle. No-one here: Goulding
and I. Clean tables, flowers, mitres of napkins. Pat to and
fro. Bald Pat. Nothing to do. Best value in Dub.
Piano again. Cowley it is. Way he sits in to it, like one to-
gether, mutual understanding. Tiresome shapers scraping
fiddles, eye on the bowend, sawing the cello, remind you of
toothache. Her high long snore. Night we were in the box.
Trombone under blowing like a grampus, between the acts,
other brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle. Conduc-
tor’s legs too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. Do right to hide
them.
Jiggedy jingle jaunty jaunty.
Only the harp. Lovely. Gold glowering light. Girl touched
it. Poop of a lovely. Gravy’s rather good fit for a. Golden ship.
Erin. The harp that once or twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth,
the rhododendrons. We are their harps. I. He. Old. Young.
—Ah, I couldn’t, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy, listless.
Strongly.
—Go on, blast you! Ben Dollard growled. Get it out in
bits.