―And I belong to a race too, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted. Also now. This very moment. This very instant.

Gob, he near burnt his fingers with the butt of his old cigar.

―Robbed, says he. Plundered. Insulted. Persecuted. Taking what belongs to us by right. At this very moment, says he, putting up his fist, sold by auction off in Morocco like slaves or cattles.

―Are you talking about the new Jerusalem? says the citizen.

―I’m talking about injustice, says Bloom.

―Right, says John Wyse. Stand up to it then with force like men.