gnam. They wouldn't care
about the smell of it. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste
like raw white turnips.
The gates glimmered in front: still open. Back to the world again.
Enough of this place. Brings you a bit nearer every time. Last time I
was here was Mrs Sinico's funeral. Poor papa too. The love that kills.
And even scraping up the earth at night with a lantern like that case
I read of to get at fresh buried females or even putrefied with running
gravesores. Give you the creeps after a bit. I will appear to you after
death. You will see my ghost after death. My ghost will haunt you after
death. There is another world after death named hell. I do not like that
other world she wrote. No more do I. Plenty to see and hear and feel
yet. Feel live warm beings near you. Let them sleep in their maggoty
beds. They are not going to get me this innings. Warm beds: warm
fullblooded life.
Martin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath, talking gravely.
Solicitor, I think. I know his face. Menton, John Henry, solicitor,
commissioner for oaths and affidavits. Dignam used to be in his office.
Mat Dillon's long ago. Jolly Mat. Convivial evenings. Cold fowl, cigars,
the Tantalus glasses. Heart of gold really. Yes, Menton. Got his rag out
that evening on the bowlinggreen because I sailed inside him. Pure fluke
of mine: the bias. Why he took such a rooted dislike to me. Hate
at first sight. Molly and Floey Dillon linked under the lilactree,
laughing. Fellow always like that, mortified if women are by.
Got a dinge in the side of his hat. Carriage probably.
--Excuse me, sir, Mr Bloom said beside them.
They stopped.
--Your hat is a little crushed, Mr Bloom said pointing.
John Henry Menton stared at him for an instant without moving.
--There, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also. John Henry Menton took
off his hat, bulged out the dinge and smoothed the nap with care on his
coatsleeve. He clapped the hat on his head again.
--It's all right now, Martin Cunningham said.
John Henry Menton jerked his head down in acknowledgment.
--Thank you, he said shortly.
They walked on towards the gates. Mr Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind
a few paces so as not to overhear. Martin laying down the law. Martin
could wind a sappyhead like that round his little finger, without his
seeing it.
Oyster eyes. Never mind. Be sorry after perhaps when it dawns on him.
Get the pull over him that way.
Thank you. How grand we
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