making a grimace.
―My fault, Mr Bloom said, suffering his grip. Are you hurt? I’m in a hurry.
―Knee, Lenehan said.
He made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee:
―The accumulation of the anno Domini.
―Sorry, Mr Bloom said.
He went to the door and, holding it ajar, paused. J. J. O’Molloy slapped the heavy pages over. The noise of two shrill voices, a mouthorgan, echoed in the bare hallway from the newsboys squatted on the doorsteps:
We are the boys of Wexford Who fought with heart and hand.
Exit Bloom
―I’m just running round to Bachelor’s walk, Mr