Sllt. Almost
human the way it sllt to call attention. Doing its level best to speak.
That door too sllt creaking, asking to be shut. Everything speaks in its
own way. Sllt.
NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR
The foreman handed back the galleypage suddenly, saying:
--Wait. Where's the archbishop's letter? It's to be repeated in the
TELEGRAPH. Where's what's his name?
He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines.
--Monks, sir? a voice asked from the castingbox.
--Ay. Where's Monks?
--Monks!
Mr Bloom took up his cutting. Time to get out.
--Then I'll get the design, Mr Nannetti, he said, and you'll give it a
good place I know.
--Monks!
--Yes, sir.
Three months' renewal. Want to get some wind off my chest first. Try
it anyhow. Rub in August: good idea: horseshow month. Ballsbridge.
Tourists over for the show.
A DAYFATHER
He walked on through the caseroom passing an old man, bowed,
spectacled, aproned. Old Monks, the dayfather. Queer lot of stuff he must
have put through his hands in his time: obituary notices, pubs' ads,
speeches, divorce suits, found drowned.
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