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would a jury give me five shillings alimony tomorrow, eh?
Fool someone else, not me. (He sniffs) Rut. Onions. Stale.
Sulphur. Grease.
(The figure of Bella Cohen stands before him.)
BELLA: You’ll know me the next time.
BLOOM: (Composed, regards her) Passée. Mutton
dressed as lamb. Long in the tooth and superfluous hair. A
raw onion the last thing at night would benefit your com-
plexion. And take some double chin drill. Your eyes are as
vapid as the glasseyes of your stuffed fox. They have the di-
mensions of your other features, that’s all. I’m not a triple
screw propeller.
BELLA: (Contemptuously) You’re not game, in fact. (Her
sowcunt barks) Fbhracht!
BLOOM: (Contemptuously) Clean your nailless middle
finger first, your bully’s cold spunk is dripping from your
cockscomb. Take a handful of hay and wipe yourself.
BELLA: I know you, canvasser! Dead cod!
BLOOM: I saw him, kipkeeper! Pox and gleet vendor!
BELLA: (Turns to the piano) Which of you was playing
the dead march from Saul?
ZOE: Me. Mind your cornflowers. (She darts to the piano
and bangs chords on it with crossed arms) The cat’s ramble
through the slag. (She glances back) Eh? Who’s making love
to my sweeties? (She darts back to the table) What’s yours is
mine and what’s mine is my own.
(Kitty, disconcerted, coats her teeth with the silver paper.
Bloom approaches Zoe.)
BLOOM: (Gently) Give me back that potato, will you?