Evening hours, girls in grey gauze.  Night hours then:  black with daggers and eyemasks.  Poetical idea:  pink, then golden, then grey, then black.  Still, true to life also.  Day:  then the night.

He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it.  Then he girded up his trousers, braced and buttoned himself.  He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the jakes and came forth from the gloom into the air.

In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he eyed carefully his black trousers:  the ends, the knees, the houghs of the knees.  What time is the funeral?  Better find out in the paper.

A creak and a dark whirr in the air high up.  The bells of George’s church.  They tolled the hour:  loud dark iron.

    Heigho!  Heigho! 
    Heigho!  Heigho! 
    Heigho!  Heigho!

Quarter to.  There again:  the overtone following through the air, a third.

Poor Dignam!

* * * * * * *

By lorries along sir John Rogerson’s quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask’s the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph office.  Could have given that address too.  And past the sailors’ home.  He turned from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime street.  By Brady’s cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt.  A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop.  Tell him if he smokes he won’t grow.  O let him!  His life isn’t such a bed of roses.  Waiting outside pubs to bring da home.  Come home to ma, da.  Slack hour:  won’t be many there.  He crossed Townsend street, passed the frowning face of Bethel.  El, yes:  house of:  Aleph, Beth.  And past Nichols’ the undertaker.  At eleven it is.  Time enough.  Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O’Neill’s.  Singing with his eyes shut.  Corny.  Met her once in the park.  In the dark.  What a lark.  Police tout.  Her name and address she then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay.  O, surely he bagged it.  Bury him cheap in a whatyoumaycall.  With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.

In Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and Oriental Tea Company and read the legends of leadpapered packets:  choice blend, finest quality, family tea.  Rather warm.  Tea.  Must get some from Tom Kernan.  Couldn’t ask him at a funeral, though.  While his eyes still read blandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his right hand with slow grace over his brow and hair.  Very warm morning.  Under their dropped lids his eyes found the tiny bow of the leather headband inside his high grade ha.  Just there.  His right hand came down into the bowl of his hat.  His fingers found quickly a card behind the headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket.