Amused Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, selfnodding:
―A pleased bottom.
The turnstile.
Is that? … Blueribboned hat … Idly writing … What? Looked? …
The curving balustrade; smoothsliding Mincius.
Puck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling:
John Eglinton, my jo, John. Why won’t you wed a wife?
He spluttered to the air:
―O, the chinless Chinaman! Chin Chon Eg Lin Ton. We went over to their playbox, Haines and I, the plumbers’ hall. Our players are creating a new art for Europe like the Greeks or M. Maeterlinck. Abbey theatre! I smell the public sweat of monks.
He spat blank.
Forgot: any more than he forgot the whipping lousy Lucy gave him. And left the femme de trente ans . And why no other children born? And his first child a girl?
Afterwit. Go back.
The dour recluse still there (he has his cake) and the douce youngling, minion of pleasure, Phedo’s toyable fair hair.
Eh … I just eh … wanted … I forgot … he …
―Longworth and M’Curdy Atkinson were there …
Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling: