IT IS NOW A MONTH SINCE DEAR HENRY FLED
TO HIS HOME UP ABOVE IN THE SKY
WHILE HIS FAMILY WEEPS AND MOURNS HIS LOSS
HOPING SOME DAY TO MEET HIM ON HIGH.


I tore up the envelope? Yes. Where did I put her letter after I read it in
the bath? He patted his waistcoatpocket. There all right. Dear Henry fled.
Before my patience are exhausted.

National school. Meade's yard. The hazard. Only two there now.
Nodding. Full as a tick. Too much bone in their skulls. The other trotting
round with a fare. An hour ago I was passing there. The jarvies raised
their hats.

A pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a
tramway standard by Mr Bloom's window. Couldn't they invent something
automatic so that the wheel itself much handier? Well but that fellow
would lose his job then? Well but then another fellow would get a job
making the new invention?

Antient concert rooms. Nothing on there. A man in a buff suit with a
crape armlet. Not much grief there. Quarter mourning. People in law
perhaps.

They went past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark's, under the railway
bridge, past the Queen's theatre: in silence. Hoardings: Eugene Stratton,
Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Could I go to see LEAH tonight, I wonder. I said I.
Or the LILY OF KILLARNEY? Elster Grimes Opera Company. Big powerful
change. Wet bright bills for next week. FUN ON THE BRISTOL. Martin