through his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled a mute curse at the sky.
―It’s as uncertain as a child’s bottom, he said.
―We’re off again.
The carriage turned again its stiff wheels and their trunks swayed gently. Martin Cunningham twirled more quickly the peak of his beard.
―Tom Kernan was immense last night, he said. And Paddy Leonard taking him off to his face.
―O draw him out, Martin, Mr Power said eagerly. Wait till you hear him, Simon, on Ben Dollard’s singing of The Croppy Boy .
―Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously. His singing of that simple ballad, Martin, is the most trenchant rendering I ever heard in the whole course of my experience.
―Trenchant, Mr Power said laughing. He’s dead nuts on that. And the retrospective arrangement.
―Did you read Dan Dawson’s speech? Martin Cunningham asked.
―I did not then, Mr Dedalus said. Where is it?
―In the paper this morning.
Mr Bloom took the paper from his inside pocket. That book I must change for her.
―No, no, Mr Dedalus said quickly. Later on, please.
Mr Bloom’s glance travelled down the edge of the paper, scanning the deaths. Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett, Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what Peake is that? is it the chap was in Crosbie and Alleyne’s? no, Sexton, Urbright. Inked characters fast fading on the frayed breaking