He looked still at her, holding back behind his look his discontent. Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. I’m hungry too. Flakes of pastry on the gusset of her dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to her cheek. Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior. Josie Powell that was. In Luke Doyle’s long ago, Dolphin’s Barn, the charades. U. P. : up.

Change the subject.

―Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy, Mr Bloom asked.

―Mina Purefoy? she said.

Philip Beaufoy I was thinking. Playgoers’ club. Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke. Did I pull the chain? Yes. The last act.