a word. Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you
don't please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we
soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. Having
read it all he took it from the newspaper and put it back in his
sidepocket.

Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder
did she wrote it herself. Doing the indignant: a girl of good
family like me, respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after the
rosary. Thank you: not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running
round corners. Bad as a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect.
Narcotic. Go further next time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of
course. Brutal, why not? Try it anyhow. A bit at a time.

Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it.
Common pin, eh? He threw it on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere:
pinned together. Queer the number of pins they always have. No roses
without thorns.

Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in
the Coombe, linked together in the rain.


O, MARY LOST THE PIN OF HER DRAWERS.
SHE DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO
TO KEEP IT UP
TO KEEP IT UP.


It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sitting all day