He’s coming in the afternoon.  Her songs.

Plasto’s.  Sir Philip Crampton’s memorial fountain bust.  Who was he?

—­How do you do?  Martin Cunningham said, raising his palm to his brow in salute.

—­He doesn’t see us, Mr Power said.  Yes, he does.  How do you do?

—­Who?  Mr Dedalus asked.

—­Blazes Boylan, Mr Power said.  There he is airing his quiff.

Just that moment I was thinking.

Mr Dedalus bent across to salute.  From the door of the Red Bank the white disc of a straw hat flashed reply:  spruce figure:  passed.

Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand, then those of his right hand.  The nails, yes.  Is there anything more in him that they she sees?  Fascination.  Worst man in Dublin.  That keeps him alive.  They sometimes feel what a person is.  Instinct.  But a type like that.  My nails.  I am just looking at them:  well pared.  And after:  thinking alone.  Body getting a bit softy.  I would notice that:  from remembering.  What causes that?  I suppose the skin can’t contract quickly enough when the flesh falls off.  But the shape is there.  The shape is there still.  Shoulders.  Hips.  Plump.  Night of the dance dressing.  Shift stuck between the cheeks behind.

He clasped his hands between his knees and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their faces.

Mr Power asked: 

—­How is the concert tour getting on, Bloom?

—­O, very well, Mr Bloom said.  I hear great accounts of it.  It’s a good idea, you see ...

—­Are you going yourself?

—­Well no, Mr Bloom said.  In point of fact I have to go down to the county Clare on some private business.  You see the idea is to tour the chief towns.  What you lose on one you can make up on the other.

—­Quite so, Martin Cunningham said.  Mary Anderson is up there now.

Have you good artists?

—­Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Bloom said.  O yes, we’ll have all topnobbers.  J. C. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope and.  The best, in fact.

—­And madame, Mr Power said smiling.  Last but not least.

Mr Bloom unclasped his hands in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them.  Smith O’Brien.  Someone has laid a bunch of flowers there.  Woman.  Must be his deathday.  For many happy returns.  The carriage wheeling by Farrell’s statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees.

Oot:  a dullgarbed old man from the curbstone tendered his wares, his mouth opening:  oot.

—­Four bootlaces for a penny.

Wonder why he was struck off the rolls.  Had his office in Hume street.  Same house as Molly’s namesake, Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford.  Has that silk hat ever since.  Relics of old decency.  Mourning too.  Terrible comedown, poor wretch!  Kicked about like snuff at a wake.  O’Callaghan on his last legs.

And madame.  Twenty past eleven.  Up.  Mrs Fleming is in to clean.  Doing her hair, humming.  VOGLIO E non VORREI.  No.  VORREI E non.  Looking at the tips of her hairs to see if they are split.  MI TREMA un poco IL.  Beautiful on that TRE her voice is:  weeping tone.  A thrush.  A throstle.  There is a word throstle that expresses that.