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A man passes a day in early twentieth-century Dublin, in a journey patterned on Homer’s Odyssey.

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Chapter 9

shepherd. Explain you then. Explain the swansong too wherein he has commended her to posterity.

He faced their silence.

To whom thus Eglinton:

You mean the will. That has been explained, I believe, by jurists. She was entitled to her widow’s dower At common law. His legal knowledge was great Our judges tell us. Him Satan fleers, Mocker: And therefore he left out her name From the first draft but he did not leave out The presents for his granddaughter, for his daughters, For his sister, for his old cronies in Stratford And in London. And therefore when he was urged, As I believe, to name her He left her his Secondbest Bed. Punkt Leftherhis Secondbest Leftherhis Bestabed Secabest Leftabed.

Woa!

―Pretty countryfolk had few chattels then, John Eglinton observed, as they have still if our peasant plays are true to type.

―He was a rich countrygentleman, Stephen said, with a coat of arms and landed estate at Stratford and a house in Ireland yard, a capitalist shareholder, a bill promoter, a tithefarmer. Why did he not leave her his best bed if he wished her to snore away the rest of her nights in peace?

―It is clear that there were two beds, a best and a secondbest, Mr Secondbest Best said finely.

― Separatio a mensa et a thalamo , bettered Buck Mulligan and was smiled on.

―Antiquity mentions famous beds, Second Eglinton puckered, bedsmiling. Let me think.

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