―O! O! jerked Lenehan, gasping at each stretch. O!

But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph.

―Why don’t you grow? asked Blazes Boylan.

Shebronze, dealing from her jar thick syrupy liquor for his lips, looked as it flowed (flower in his coat: who gave him?), and syrupped with her voice:

―Fine goods in small parcels.

That is to say she. Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe.

―Here’s fortune, Blazes said.

He pitched a broad coin down. Coin rang.

―Hold on, said Lenehan, till I⁠ ⁠…

―Fortune, he wished, lifting his bubbled ale.

―Sceptre will win in a canter, he said.