his ear, we can do him one.

--Right, Mr Bloom said with a nod. I'll rub that in.

We.


WILLIAM BRAYDEN,
ESQUIRE, OF OAKLANDS, SANDYMOUNT


Red Murray touched Mr Bloom's arm with the shears and whispered:

--Brayden.

Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a
stately figure entered between the newsboards of the WEEKLY FREEMAN AND
NATIONAL PRESS and the FREEMAN'S JOURNAL AND NATIONAL PRESS. Dullthudding
Guinness's barrels. It passed statelily up the staircase, steered by an
umbrella, a solemn beardframed face. The broadcloth back ascended each
step: back. All his brains are in the nape of his neck, Simon Dedalus
says. Welts of flesh behind on him. Fat folds of neck, fat, neck, fat,
neck.

--Don't you think his face is like Our Saviour? Red Murray whispered.

The door of Ruttledge's office whispered: ee: cree. They always build
one door opposite another for the wind to. Way in. Way out.

Our Saviour: beardframed oval face: talking in the dusk. Mary,