He took a page up from the pile of cut sheets: the model farm at
Kinnereth on the lakeshore of Tiberias. Can become ideal winter
sanatorium. Moses Montefiore. I thought he was. Farmhouse, wall round it,
blurred cattle cropping. He held the page from him: interesting: read it
nearer, the title, the blurred cropping cattle, the page rustling. A
young white heifer. Those mornings in the cattlemarket, the beasts lowing
in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the breeders in
hobnailed boots trudging through the litter, slapping a palm on a
ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their
hands. He held the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his
will, his soft subject gaze at rest. The crooked skirt swinging, whack by
whack by whack.

The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the pile, wrapped up her prime
sausages and made a red grimace.

--Now, my miss, he said.

She tendered a coin, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out.

--Thank you, my miss. And one shilling threepence change. For you,
please?

Mr Bloom pointed quickly. To catch up and walk behind her if she went
slowly, behind her moving hams. Pleasant to see first thing in the
morning. Hurry up, damn it. Make hay while the sun shines. She stood
outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the right. He sighed
down his nose: they never understand. Sodachapped hands. Crusted toenails
too. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways. The sting of
disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast. For another: a