Mary,
Martha. Steered by an umbrella sword to the footlights: Mario the tenor.
--Or like Mario, Mr Bloom said.
--Yes, Red Murray agreed. But Mario was said to be the picture of Our
Saviour.
Jesusmario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. Hand on his
heart. In MARTHA.
CO-OME THOU LOST ONE,
CO-OME THOU DEAR ONE!
THE CROZIER AND THE PEN
--His grace phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray said gravely.
They watched the knees, legs, boots vanish. Neck.
A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an envelope on the counter
and stepped off posthaste with a word:
--FREEMAN!
Mr Bloom said slowly:
--Well, he is one of our saviours also.
A meek smile accompanied him as he lifted the counterflap, as he
passed in through a sidedoor and along the warm dark stairs and passage,
along the now reverberating boards. But will he save the circulation?
Thumping. Thumping.
He pushed in the glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn
packing paper. Through a lane of clanking drums he made his way towards
Nannetti's reading closet.
Hynes here too: account of the funeral probably.
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