of man's ashes. He coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottle stood up,
stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel: isle of
dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze of dark
cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach
a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams of brown
steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.

He halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara's. Am I not going
there? Seems not. No-one about. He turned northeast and crossed the
firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse.

--QUI VOUS A MIS DANS CETTE FICHUE POSITION?

--C'EST LE PIGEON, JOSEPH.

Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar
MacMahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. My father's a bird,
he lapped the sweet LAIT CHAUD with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face.
Lap, LAPIN. He hopes to win in the GROS LOTS. About the nature of women he
read in Michelet. But he must send me LA VIE DE JESUS by M. Leo Taxil.
Lent it to his friend.

--C'EST TORDANT, VOUS SAVEZ. MOI, JE SUIS SOCIALISTE. JE NE CROIS PAS EN
L'EXISTENCE DE DIEU. FAUT PAS LE DIRE A MON P-RE.

--IL CROIT?

--MON PERE, OUI.

SCHLUSS. He laps.