Улисс

           Dead:anoldwoman’s:thegreysunkencuntoftheworld.

           Desolation.

           Greyhorrorsearedhisflesh.FoldingthepageintohispocketheturnedintoEcclesstreet,hurryinghomeward.Coldoilsslidalonghisveins,chillinghisblood:agecrustinghimwithasaltcloak.Well,Iamherenow.Yes,Iamherenow.Morningmouthbadimages.Gotupwrongsideofthebed.MustbeginagainthoseSandow’sexercises.Onthehandsdown.Blotchybrownbrickhouses.Numbereightystillunlet.Whyisthat?Valuationisonlytwentyeight.Towers,Battersby,North,MacArthur:parlourwindowsplasteredwithbills.Plastersonasoreeye.Tosmellthegentlesmokeoftea,fumeofthepan,sizzlingbutter.Benearheramplebedwarmedflesh.Yes,yes.

           QuickwarmsunlightcamerunningfromBerkeleyroad,swiftly,inslimsandals,alongthebrighteningfootpath.Runs,sherunstomeetme,agirlwithgoldhaironthewind.

           Twolettersandacardlayonthehallfloor.Hestoopedandgatheredthem.MrsMarionBloom.Hisquickenedheartslowedatonce.Boldhand.MrsMarion.

           —Poldy!

           Enteringthebedroomhehalfclosedhiseyesandwalkedthroughwarmyellowtwilighttowardshertousledhead.

           —Whoarethelettersfor?

           Helookedatthem.Mullingar.Milly.

           —AletterformefromMilly,hesaidcarefully,andacardtoyou.Andaletterforyou.

           Helaidhercardandletteronthetwillbedspreadnearthecurveofherknees.

           —Doyouwanttheblindup?

           Lettingtheblindupbygentletugshalfwayhisbackwardeyesawherglanceattheletterandtuckitunderherpillow.

           —Thatdo?heasked,turning.