us? Mr Power asked through both windows.
―Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said. Ringsend. Brunswick street.
Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out.
―That’s a fine old custom, he said. I am glad to see it has not died out.
All watched awhile through their windows caps and hats lifted by passers. Respect. The carriage swerved from the tramtrack to the smoother road past Watery lane. Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man, clad in mourning, a wide hat.
―There’s a friend of yours gone by, Dedalus, he said.
―Who is that?
―Your son and heir.
―Where is he? Mr Dedalus said, stretching over, across.
The carriage, passing the open drains and mounds