"By lorries along sir John Rogerson's Quay
Mr. Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask's the linseed
crusher's, the postal telegraph office. Could have given that address
too. And past the sailor's home. He turned from the morning noises of
the quayside and walked through Limestreet.
By Brady's cottages a boy for the skin lolled, his bucket of offal
linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on
her forehead eyed him, listlesly holding her battered caskhoop. Tell him
if he smokes he won't grow. O let him! His life isn't such a bed of
roses! Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. Come home to ma, da. Slack
hour: won't be many there.
He crossed Townsend Street, passed the frowning face of Bethel. El, yes:
house of Aleph, Beth.
And past Nichol's the undertaker's. At eleven it is. Time enough.
Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged that job for O'Neill's."