--Ay, ay, sighed the sailor, looking down on his manly chest. He's gone
too. Ate by sharks after. Ay, ay.
He let go of the skin so that the profile resumed the normal expression
of before.
--Neat bit of work, one longshoreman said.
--And what's the number for? loafer number two queried.
--Eaten alive? a third asked the sailor.
--Ay, ay, sighed again the latter personage, more cheerily this time with
some sort of a half smile for a brief duration only in the direction of
the questioner about the number. Ate. A Greek he was.
And then he added with rather gallowsbird humour considering his alleged
end:
--AS BAD AS OLD ANTONIO,
FOR HE LEFT ME ON MY OWNIO.
The face of a streetwalker glazed and haggard under a black straw hat
peered askew round the door of the shelter palpably reconnoitring on her
own with the object of bringing more grist to her mill. Mr Bloom,
scarcely knowing which way to look, turned away on the moment flusterfied
but outwardly calm, and, picking up from the table the pink sheet of the
Abbey street organ which the jarvey, if such he was, had laid aside, he
picked it up and looked at the pink of the paper though why pink.
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