#That is one of his crimes in Fanny's mind as much as anything else! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

not-close-to-straight · 4 years

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More Than Words (Four)

This chapter turned out different than I planned, but if there’s one thing I learned, it’s to let stories do whatever they want because Free Range Plots are much more fun to read than plotted, planned and outlined ones.

Note: while this story isn’t actually D/s, I have given ‘subspace’ a MTW/ABO twist and I sort of love it. Hope everyone else does too!

Also, I love snarky Hank Pym so much omg his character in the Ant Man movies was amazing.

MTW MASTERLIST HERE

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Hank Pym had an entire list of people he never wanted to see knocking at his front door.

Tony Stark topped the list, Tony Stark’s uncomfortably intimidating assistant Pepper Potts was a close second. Norman Osborn wasn’t even allowed within a hundred yards of the property-- or was it that Hank wasn’t allowed within a hundred yards of Norman Osborn? Restraining orders between old men fighting over physics were so complicated-- and even though Scott Lang was well on his way to becoming part of the family, Hank didn’t particularly want to see him at three in the morning either.

The very last person Hank was expecting to see on the other side of his door was the mutant cyborg Cable, and though he would happily die before admitting he screamed when that metallic yellow eye zeroed in on him---

“Shit!” Hank tried to slam the door right in Cable’s face, shrieked a little when metal fingers grasped around the edges and pried it back open, and then shrieked a little louder when the heavy door came right off its hinges as Cable barreled inside.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Hank swept a shock of silver hair away from his eyes and puffed out his chest, folding his arms and rocking up onto his toes and doing everything possible to appear bigger than his several inches shorter than the Alpha. “You can’t just run in here like you own the place! Who the hell do you think you are!?”

“You know who I am.” Cable didn’t bother hiding his smirk over Hank’s floor length striped robe and color coordinated slippers. “Nice jammies.”

“I’m insisting I don’t know who you are, so when I’m taken to court for whatever mayhem you’re about to unleash on Manhattan, I can truthfully say I had no prior notice of your bullshit.” the Beta retorted. “Get out. Your kind isn’t welcome here.”

“My kind.” Cable dumped his utility bag out onto the nearest surface and rifled through the assorted items. “Pretty bold words coming from someone who’s future son in law has a standing appointment at the local prison.”

“Scott’s a good kid, he’s just a dumbass.” Hank defended. “And by your kind I meant you, specifically. You, Cable, are not welcome here. The last time you ended up in my neighborhood you tried to steal my tech and destroy my gardenias. You need to leave. Take that bionic arm and creepy eye and your fanny pack and get out.”

“It’s a utility bag.” Cable held a computer chip up towards the genius. “And I’m not going to apologize for your gardenias. They weren’t prize winning no matter what the old lady across the street told you. Are you going to help me or what?”

“It’s absolutely a fanny pack and no, I won’t be helping you.” the Beta inched forward a step, eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “What is that? Why is it glowing gold?”

“I thought you weren’t going to help me.” Cable taunted, holding the chip away when Hank reached for it. “Or did you change your mind?”

“I’m not going to help you.” With a quickness that belied his nearly eighty years, Hank grabbed at a small remote and pressed the button. There was a whir and a pulse, and Cable’s left arm dropped limp and useless, the chip falling from his fingers.

“Gotcha.” Hank darted forward and grabbed it, ducking back out of the way as the robotic pieces of Cable’s body came back on line. “You like that? Pocket sized EMP. I know that shiny shit up your neck is more techno organic than mechanical, but an EMP will stun anything for a few seconds.”

“Congratulations.” Cable said flatly. “You stunned me for a few seconds and got your hands on the computer chip. What now?”

“Now you can leave.” Hank flipped on a lamp and studied the piece under brighter light. “But before you go, tell me what this is?”

“It is part of the computer that controls my time travel device.” the Alpha admitted, and Hank’s eyes widened in excitement. “It’s all I have left, actually. A back up to my main piece. My device was...taken… and now I need to build a new one.”

“The mighty time traveling Cable stuck in the year twenty nineteen?” Hank whistled in mock sympathy. “Got your fancy time traveling gadget stolen, huh? Who took it from you?”

“That doesn’t matter.” Irritation blanketed Cable’s scent, but Hank Pym was a Beta and gave exactly zero fucks what an Alpha scented like. “You need to help me build another one.”

“Oh-ho, I think I do not.” Hank ran a curious finger over the glowing chip. “Why does it light up like this? Is it like the glow of my Pym particles?”

“Pym particles.” Cable rolled his eyes. “You’re a few years ahead of this timeline’s science and think you can just name sub atomic particles after yourself. You know what we call them in my timeline?” Hank’s eyes narrowed and Cable finished bluntly, “Trash. Pym particles are trash because we’ve moved beyond them. Now are you going to help or not?”

“Right.” Hank turned the chip over a few times. “Remind me why I’d help you now that you’ve thoroughly insulted my life’s work?”

“Because you’re desperate to know how time travel works.” The Alpha unfolded a piece of paper and handed it to the scientist. “And because you’re so damn curious you’re gonna throw me out tonight, then fuss and fidget for a few days, and then call me and act huffy about helping. How about we skip all of that and you just help me now?”

The muscle in the Beta’s jaw jumped as Hank ground his teeth together and glowered, but finally he snatched the list from Cable and read through it, muttering under his breath the entire time.

And finally, “I have most of this on hand. A couple items will take me a week to get my hands on but some of these?” he shook his head. “Cable, I don’t know what’s just laying around on grocery store shelves in your timeline, but these sort of things are locked up tight in all the places the government swears they aren’t stockpiling weapons of mass destruction and doomsday devices. I can’t just waltz in the front door, have a cashier ring me up, and then waltz back out with this in a paper bag.”

“You tell me where to find it, I’ll get in and grab it.” Cable maintained. “You get me the rest. Then I’ll need your lab for the finer work.”

“No no no, you aren’t listening to me.” Hank stabbed his finger at the list. “Even if I called in a few favors and managed to get my hands on it, those phone calls would end with me being tossed down a dark hole and probably charged with war crimes and consorting with terrorists. No. No, I’m not doing it.”

“Hank--”

“How do you lose a time travel device anyway!” Agitated now, the Beta crumpled the list up and tossed it back at Cable. “Don’t you have a spare?”

“I have the one.” Cable said in frustration. “I have charges for it and enough pieces to make minor repairs, but it’s gone and now I have to build a rudimentary piece from scratch to get back to my timeline and retrieve a newer one to return to the past!”

“Why the past!” Hank threw up his hands. “Why does it matter? Why did you pound on my door at three in the morning to ask me something imposs--”

“It’s a kid.” Cable cut in, and Hank’s mouth shut with an audible click. “He’s just a kid, twenty something years old, scrappy little Omega is all. He ended up activating the device without meaning to and now he and the dial are gone. I need a new one so I can go and get him back.”

“So you know where he is.”

“I know exactly where he is.” Cable nodded. “I had the dial pre set to a specific year, just gotta jump back and drag him back before it’s too late.”

“...what’s too late?” Hank swallowed and took the list again, scanning through it a second time. “When will it be too late?”

“Don’t worry about that.” the Alpha waved the question off. “How soon can you have this all for me?”

“It will take a few months.” Hank felt around for a pen and started making calculations. “Most of the pieces are easy to get, assembling them into such a delicate device is completely different. The more difficult items will take several weeks to get in, I’ll have to treat the wires, build a circuit board, all that sort of thing. And the more impossible things could take months if I can get them at all.”

“You have ninety days.” Cable said flatly and Hank gaped at him.

“Were you listening to what I said? It could a month and a half just to track down some of these, and the rest I’ll have to call in favors for, sell my soul and probably sign over Hope’s first born child! I can’t do it in--”

“You have ninety days.” the mutant said again. “I have to get that kid and get him back within ninety days.”

“What happens in ninety days?” Hank held up a hand stubbornly when Cable tried to argue. “No, you need to tell me. What happens in ninety days if I can’t get all this material?”

Cable swallowed, guilt laying heavy over his shoulders. “When a human is placed into a timeline other than their own, their body stops working. Blood cells stop regenerating, wounds won’t heal, a cold could actually kill them because their immune system can’t rally. Anything other than their basic functions grinds to a halt. Sometimes mental stability is affected, other times it eats away at them visibly-- hair falling out, loss of hearing, severe eczema, all of that.”

“What?”

“This is a virus.” Cable tapped at the metal leeched into his neck. “I’m not a cyborg, I’m not a robot. I’m sick. I don’t belong in the future timeline, I was sent there as a child and was infected with this virus. Every time I use my device it takes over my body a little bit more until one day there won’t be anything of me left. But I’m mutant, so it's a slower progression. On a human, it won’t be slow at all.”

“Ninety days.” Hank stared stunned, the color draining from his face. “Red blood cells only last about a hundred and fifteen days before our body breaks them down, is that why it’s ninety days? Anything past that and his body starts to shut down entirely?”

“If he gets a bad cut, he’ll die because his body isn’t making anything new to replace what’s lost.” Cable stated. “If he gets a cold, it will turn into fatal pneumonia within a matter of days. A fever could end him by sun down, an allergic reaction could kill him within minutes. This is life or death, Hank. Are you going to help me or not?”

“Ninety days.” the Beta looked back down at the list. “I can get this in ninety days. Maybe even sooner.”

“Maybe make it sooner.” Cable grunted. “You let me know how I can help. And Hank?”

Hank looked up and Cable offered him a half smile. “Thank you.”

The mutant was out of the house and gone a moment later, leaving Hank holding the paper and the computer chip as the cold night air wound in through the broken door.

“Prick.” he muttered to no one in particular. “I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for the kid.” and then quieter, “And because I am dying to know how time travel works.”

“Ninety days. I can do this.”

***************

Peter hummed to himself as he gathered eggs, shooing the chickens away from their nests and tucking the eggs in the pocket of his hoodie. He’d never put even a split second of thought into where his breakfast came from but apparently chickens only lay one egg a day which meant his favorite brunch meal of three egg omelets was the combined effort of three different chickens and that-- that just didn’t seem right.

Looking down at the five meager eggs, Peter made a silent vow to never eat more than two at a time anymore, especially since Wade more than likely ate all five and was giving up part of his breakfast for Peter.

“You look awfully stressed out for having tussled with chickens.” Wade flashed his fangs in a teasing grin when Peter made it back inside. “Figured after three days the birds would stop giving you grief. Which one did you poke in the butt?”

“I didn’t poke anyone in the butt.” Peter huffed, and the Alpha’s smile stretched wider. “It’s just um--”

“Just what?” Wade could fit all five eggs in his big palm without even stretching, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by Peter, even though he didn’t let himself linger too long on the fact that Wade had big feet too. We all know what that means. “What’s on your mind, Pete?”

“Um, it’s stupid.” Peter grabbed at his notebook and jotted down a few lines. “I just never put any thought into where my food came from or how much effort goes into making it.”

“...it takes two minutes to collect eggs, Pete.”

“No.” Peter shook his head. “No I mean. Chickens only lay one egg a day.” Wade blinked at him and Peter gestured vaguely. “My normal breakfast is the work of three chickens, a cow or goat, and someone who has to plant and harvest vegetables!”

“Yeah.” Wade cracked the eggs into a pan. “And?”

“And.” Peter emphasized. “I just go to the grocery store and buy a dozen eggs, a quart of milk and grab a tomato on my way up to the register. I never put any thought into how much effort goes into food. It’s about enough to turn someone vegan.”

“And vegan means…”

“I won’t eat any product that comes from an animal.” Peter stared down at his cup of milk. “Even though I feel like that barely works in my time where I can buy basically anything at the store, I’ll definitely starve to death here if I have to live on pine cones or something.”

“Yeah it’d be a real shame if you starved to death.” The Alpha stirred at their breakfast for a minute and then dropped a slab of meat into a frying pan. “I got five chickens because I usually eat five eggs and then I butcher them in the hard parts of winter so they don’t freeze and so I have fresh meat. I keep a goat for the milk and two horses to help haul the wagon. It’s not like I’m over hunting deer for the sport of it or keeping so many chickens I just end up attracting coyotes and mountain lions. If I don’t eat--”

“No.” Peter held up his hand to quiet Wade. “No, I’m not saying you’re wrong for needing to hunt or anything. I’m just saying that the-- wow the sheer amount of eggs and meat and milk that people in my timeline go through and now that I know a chicken only lays one egg a day it’s just… It’s sort of awful.”

“Well it’s a good thing you’re here now.” Wade turned the meat over and raised his eyebrows at Peter. “Right? Because it’s not awful.”

“It’s decidedly not awful.” Peter agreed, a faint blush climbing his cheeks when the Alpha rumbled at him softly. “And thank you for breakfast. I promise I can actually cook though, so maybe tomorrow morning you let me try?”

Tomorrow morning. The words came so easily, the assumption and acceptance that Peter would be there another day something that made both Alpha and Omega smile.

Four days had come and gone since Logan’s visit, and every day Peter woke up a little more rested, a little more peaceful.

He followed Wade along with chores and helped where he could, spent long hours exploring the surrounding forest while Wade worked on the cabin or chopped wood, and at evening they ate dinner together, talking quietly about the day and sharing increasingly warm smiles. Peter would write down all the new things he learned, Wade would patiently try to answer a litany of questions and Peter would exclaim in delight every time he figured out an answer before Wade could tell him.

Every night Wade motioned Peter towards the bed and Peter would put up a fuss about how Wade should be sleeping in the bed. The Alpha would growl a little and demand, Peter would huff and turn his nose up but inevitably, he would snuggle down into heavy blankets and Wade would watch protectively until the Omega slipped away into dreams.

It was the easiest thing in the world to move around each other, to move with each other, to laugh and talk and find conversation and for the first time in years Peter asked questions without urgency, wanted to know without feeling like he might explode if he didn’t, he was learning without painfully, desperately searching.

Wade’s scent wrapped safe around him at night, the cabin air saturated with contentment, and even though neither Peter nor Wade had re- introduced the topic of their scents matching or how they knew each other, there wasn’t really words for what they felt anyway.

The knowing was more than words, it was more than what Peter had read about in romance novels, more than what science could explain away, the sort of comfort and security that settled soul deep despite knowing Cable could return any minute and take him away.

They weren’t ready to think about that though, not about Cable and not about saying goodbye when they were still just barely skating along the surface of the bond sparking between their souls.

No, Peter was more than willing to put Cable out of his mind for right now and focus on learning everything he could about Wade’s world… and perhaps focusing on pulling as many fanged smiles from the Alpha as he could.

And it was this focus that led directly to Peter deciding he wanted to help Wade out more by taking on another chore, which in turn led directly to the Omega staring down a goat and immediately wondering if he’d made a mistake.

Offering to clean the cabin would have been a better idea.

“Alright Goat.” Peter eyed the beast warily, bucket clutched in one hand, a chunk of dandelions held in the other. “You got milk, I need the milk, are you gonna be cool about this or what?”

The goat bleated and stamped it’s little hoof.

“What was that?” Peter asked suspiciously. “Was that a yes? Are you saying yes? Gonna give it up for some dandelions?”

Wade was busy working tangles from Bea’s mane so he didn’t witness the head butting but he definitely heard the Omega squawk in outrage, heard the goat bellow in triumph, and when Peter came out of the barn spitting both hay and curses, Wade turned back to the roan so his laughter wasn’t quite so obvious.

“I can hear you.” Peter snapped and Wade tried even harder to muffle it. “That Billy goat knocked me right over! Does it do that to you?”

“First of all,” Wade smoothed his fingers through Bea’s mane and patted the mare on the neck to shoo her on. “That’s a nanny goat, not a billy goat. Billy goats are boys, nanny goats give milk. What did you think you were tugging on down there to get white stuff to shoot out?”

Peter's jaw dropped, his perfect lips opening in an shocked ‘oh’ at Wade’s phrasing. “I— um— I mean I wasn’t—“ Wade waited until he finished lamely. “I wasn’t tugging. Not yet anyway. I got head butted before I could try.”

“Fair enough.” Wade’s scent colored amused and the Omega turned bright red. “C’mon, get your bucket and I’ll show you. Come on.”

Peter grumbled under his breath as he followed Wade back into the barn, but he still dragged the stool over and paid close attention as Wade led the goat back over and tethered her to a short post, putting a pile of food in front of the animal to keep her distracted.

“See this? Milking post. Keeps her from running.” Wade smoothed his hands down the goat’s back and patted her rump. “Make sure she knows where you are, talk to her a little. She might be an animal but that doesn’t mean she likes being yanked on any more than a person would, you know? Easy and steady, firm but not painful. Look.”

Peter watched in fascination as milk hit the bucket in steady streams, Wade making the motions with no visible effort at all. “It doesn’t hurt her?”

“It’s more of a relief.” Wade trilled at the goat when she balked away from Peter. “She had kids this past spring so she’s pretty full of milk still. When we go to town, I’ll get her bred up with one of the town billies so her production stays up. There will be a few months in the spring where we don’t have milk cos she’s nursing but otherwise she puts out all year.”

“Is she acting weird around me because I’m new?” Peter picked up the nearly trampled dandelions and offered them to the goat again. “Or am I doing something wrong?”

“You smell off.” Wade eased off the goat and got up from the stool, motioning for Peter to take his place. “Humans don’t like the scent of mutants because we scent wild. Animals like our scent just fine. S’why the wolf pups follow Logan. They recognize the wild in him.”

“You don’t smell weird to me.” Peter settled onto the stool and petted at the animal awkwardly. “I think you smell good.”

“Yeah well,” Wade cleared his throat, swallowing back a burble of happiness. “That’s because if you told me I stunk, I’d kick you out and make you fend for yourself.”

“You’re right, that’s exactly what it is.” Peter wrinkled his nose teasingly, then put cautious hands on the goat. “Is this right? It doesn’t feel right. In fact it feels a little… ick.”

“You’re basically right.” Wade crouched behind the Omega, big arms circling Peter's lean frame so he could cover Peter's hands with his own and better direct each motion. “Feel that? A little pressure and it will give, and then right here where you meet some resistance, back off. No no don’t let go.” He recaptured Peters hands. “You let go and she thinks you’re done. Always hands on.”

“How do I know when she’s empty?” Peter’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Do I keep going until she’s all the way dry or stop before then?”

“You’ll feel when she’s about done, but you do wanna get her empty.” Wade let Peter take over the milking again, but didn’t move from behind the Omega. “Leave too much and her body thinks she doesn’t need to produce and then we end up with no milk at all. And having a full udder for too long can give her an infection.”

“Okay.” Peter nodded, eyes trained on the bucket and the stream of milk. “We do this twice a day?”

“Twice a day, and once you get comfortable it shouldn’t take you more than five or six minutes.” Wade confirmed. “Think you can handle it?”

“I think it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if you watched me a few times to make sure I’m not hurting her.” Peter clicked at the goat when she shifted uncertainly. “Would you mind?”

Wade would certainly not mind sitting here twice a day with Peter cradled between his thighs, the Omega’s thick hair in his nose and back fit to his chest. Peter hadn’t seemed to notice yet that Wade was practically hugging him, that all he’d have to do was turn his head and their lips would meet, or scoot back a few inches to plaster their bodies together.

He was so close and here in the barn the Omega’s honeysuckle scent mixed with sun warmed hay, lavender underscoring the earthier tones of animal and it would have been so easy for Wade to shift forward and bury his nose in Peter’s hair, to inhale deep and get scent drunk right then and there.

Tempting.

“‘Course I don't mind helping.” Wade tried for teasing but it fell flat as his entire body tightened with a surge of longing . “Last thing I need is you pissing off the goat and her giving me spoiled milk, right?”

“Ugh. Right.” Peter laughed quietly. “You’d kick me out for sure then, wouldn't you?”

“Without even hesitating.” Wade said immediately and Peter laughed again.

There really was something sort of relaxing about this particular chore. Sunlight was streaming bright through the open barn doors and settling warm over their shoulders. The goat was calm and the steady crunch of it eating was oddly comforting. Peter could hear Bea and Arthur stamping around in the yard and their soft nickers and neighs as they talked to each other, and beyond that was the sound of birds in the trees and the whistle of autumn wind through branches.

Wade was set right behind him, the Alpha solid and steady, soothing and dependable, dark licorice scent like caramel flowing thick through Peter’s veins, the cedar bringing to mind long summer days and lazy naps in the sunshine.

Not that he needed a nap, no Peter had slept better in Wade’s bed the last several nights than he had in months. The mattress was barely comfortable but somehow Peter sank right into it and passed out almost immediately. Dreams that had been almost nightmares before were now nothing more than vague impressions of calm and home and even though waking up to a cold cabin wasn’t easy, it was wonderful to sit up and stretch and watch Wade’s eyes light red and possessive for just a split second before the Alpha got himself under control again.

Never once had Peter thought to want an Alpha outside his heat, but oh he wanted Wade and the sudden shift made his fingers tremble, his heart pound.

“Easy. Let up now.” The Alpha’s deep voice was low and smooth in Peter’s ear, breaking into his thoughts and pulling him back to the moment. “She’s all done, Pete. Don’t want to stress her out.”

“Hm?” Peter blinked a few times, lethargic and lazy and not wanting to break the hazy spell that had fallen over them. “Oh. Oh sorry. Is she okay?”

The goat bleated at Peter in annoyance and side stepped away, so Wade reached with one hand to undo her tether and send her out into the yard, then murmured, “It’s alright. You didn’t hurt her.” and pressed at Peter’s side gently, before spreading his fingers out over the Omega’s stomach so Peter wouldn’t move away quite yet. “Are you okay? Seems like I lost you there for a minute.”

“Yeah, I just sort of--” Peter’s mouth felt dry, his tongue thick and head fuzzy and he closed his eyes to the pull of slumber. “--just sort of floated away. I dunno what happened.”

“Floated away…” Wade hesitated. “...in a bad way?”

“Mmmm, no.” he hummed a little and turned in Wade’s arms, tucking his nose into the Alpha’s neck and parting his lips to take a slow breath in. “No, I got tired all the sudden and I feel… spacey. Sorry.”

“Christ.” Wade slipped his hand over Peter’s stomach and around to the side, holding the Omega tight to his chest and shuddering when Peter only sighed and settled firmer into his shoulder. “No, don’t apologize. This is-- this is fine. I’ve got you. Just… just keep floatin’ Pete. I’ve got you.”

Peter’s smile was soft and secret, fingers clutched into Wade’s shirt and frame limp and trusting and the Alpha whispered, “Stay right here.”

It had been so long since Vanessa had passed that Wade had forgotten about this, forgotten about the way two bodies could yearn and linger and the way one partner could fall into a lazy sort of euphoria just because there was nothing better than being held safe in the others arms.

Vanessa had been an Alpha, so these sort of moments had been few and far between but Wade remembered slow nights watching the fire as she drew mindless patterns on his chest and how he’d slipped deeper and deeper under until he could have sworn the stars were shining bright right there in their cabin. He remembered Vanessa wearing nothing more than his shirt, fangs glinting as she laughed, all her edges softened and blurred as he brushed her hair or whispered sweet things into her skin as she tumbled into brilliant nothingness where the only thing that mattered was the pressure of his fingers and the rumble of his voice.

And now Peter was tipping over the edge with nothing more than sunshine and Wade holding him close. He was gorgeous, breath taking even, and it was all Wade could do not to gather the Omega up and carry him to the cabin and lay claim to him properly.

But it wasn’t the right time, it may never be the right time, not when their realities were so far separated and not when Cable was bound to return and take Peter away.

It wasn’t the right time and the thought made Wade’s blood rush hot, his fangs aching as the instinct to claim now before it was too late flashed through his core. His scent roiled sharp, fingers gripping too tight, and the change had Peter shifting against him, the Omega’s perfectly pert nose wrinkling in distress.

“No no no, no distress.” Wade tried to calm his scent, to loosen his hold. “Easy Omega, little Omega, it’s alright. Settle down.”

“Mmm.” Peter hummed and stilled again, and Wade ignored the burn in his thighs from crouching so long, the ache in his back from being bent into such a weird position, and mentally willed the Omega to stay.

Please stay.

Please don’t leave me.

They sat together for a while, and would have sat together long enough for Wade’s legs to go entirely numb if the goat hadn’t interrupted the quiet moment with an aggressively annoyed noise from outside. Wade’s heart twisted when Peter’s eyes opened wide in surprise, and then shuttered in shyness, his cheeks stained red as he peeked up from beneath his lashes.

“We probably have more chores to do?” he whispered, and Wade whispered back, “I can do them, why don’t you go rest?”

“I’m not tired anymore.” Peter denied, but the stretch and wriggle and sleepy sigh he gave said something different. Need punched Wade straight through the stomach as the Omega’s shirt rode up to expose perfect skin, Peter’s satisfied moan as he came back to himself enough to have the Alpha biting his tongue until it bled. “Okay, maybe just a short nap.”

“That’s fine.” Wade managed. “You need help back to the cabin?”

“I’m pretty sure I can walk.” Peter teased him, but standing on wobbly legs was more difficult than he imagined, and he pitched forward a little, catching himself on Wade’s shoulders. “Wow. Sorry. Seriously, I don’t know what’s going on.”

“It’s fine.” Wade ran gentle hands up Peter’s long legs to settle at his waist, holding the Omega steady. “It’s-- shit, Pete. This is fine. How are you feeling? Still floaty?”

“Feel like I’m coming back around now.” From this angle Peter was staring right down at the Alpha, rubbing his thumbs over Wade’s collarbone and the scars at the base of his neck. His eyes were lit with curiosity but not disgust, maybe even affection and Wade held his breath and waited for the inevitable questions---

“Does this hurt?” Peter asked softly and that-- that wasn’t what Wade had been expecting at all.

“What?”

“Does it hurt when I touch you?” Peter clarified. “If I touch you here?” his fingers slid under the shirt collar just a bare inch, and Wade felt the touch like a brand at his soul. God, how long had it been since anyone had touched him like this? “Do the scars hurt?”

“No.” Wade shook his head, his scent filtering thankful when Peter flattened his palms to touch more skin. “Not anymore. They only hurt when I get a new one, but once they fade, I don’t notice anymore. Looks worse than it feels.”

“When you get a new one.” Peter swept his fingers up along Wade’s neck, trilling sweetly when the Alpha tipped his head into his palm. “How often do you get a new one?”

“...one part of my mutation is that I heal.” Wade explained slowly. “I heal from everything. But the scars never go away. Every cut, every broken bone, every scrape stays on my skin forever. The older I get the worse it becomes.”

“How old are you?” Gentle so gentle over Wade’s bare scalp, a soft hush when Wade shuddered. “How long have you been collecting scars? Logan said he fought in all the wars with you, what does that mean? How old are you?”

Wade hesitated, wet his lips and steeled himself for shock and rejection before finally admitting, “Logan and I met during the war of 1812. I’d recently lost my mate Vanessa and when war broke out I went and lost myself in the fighting. Men like Logan and I-- you find each other when you’re the only ones walking off a battlefield full of dead men.”

“1812.” Peter repeated, and unbelievably, his beautiful mouth tipped up in a smile. “That’s amazing. So you-- you’re a hundred years old? Older?”

“I’m not sure of my exact birthday.” Wade swallowed, pressed at Peter's waist coaxingly. “You’re not going to ask about Vanessa?”

“I’m so sorry you had to lose her.” Peter inched closer, lips parting over a shaky sigh when Wade’s hold tightened. “She was your first mate? Have you-- have you had one since?”

Just you. “...no.” Wade shook his head. “I never thought I’d get another chance at a scent match and a soul bond.”

“Oh.” Another sigh, this one even more unsteady. “A hundred years you’ve been collecting scars, you’ve bonded and lost her, and now you and I-- um, you and I--” the Omega bit at his lip shyly. “You’re beautiful, Wade. Incredible. I wish I knew all your stories.”

“Stick around.” Wade waggled his eyebrows to break the tension, and obligingly, Peter laughed. “I’ll teach you a thing or two.”

“Plan on it.” Peter finally leaned away, clearing his throat and blinking the last of the daze from his eyes. “Chores?”

“I thought you were going to take a nap.” Wade stood gingerly, stretching his sore muscles until the hurt bled away. “Go lay down, Omega. I’ll wake you in time for dinner.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Wade jerked his head towards the cabin, then turned away so he wouldn’t be tempted to follow Peter to bed. “Go on. See you tonight.”

*************

It wasn’t easy for Peter to wake up in a cold cabin, or stumble from the bed to splash ice water on his face to help with chores, but it was easy to look up with a smile for the Alpha when Wade offered him a cup of too strong coffee to help him face the day.

It wasn’t easy to learn how to milk the goat, or to dry his clothes when Peter inevitably knocked the milk bucket over, or to keep the goat tethered tight enough to not move too far but not so tight that the ornery thing yelled at him the entire time.

But oh it was easy to blush when Wade looked up and caught Peter shirtless as he tried to wring out the wet, the Alpha’s eyes lighting red and scent charging eager for a few breathless seconds.

And it really wasn’t easy to force himself to eat red meat, but this life required more energy than Peter was used to. He couldn’t survive on beans, eggs and bread forever, so he sat down for dinner each night and ate tiny bites so his stomach wouldn’t hurt.

It wasn’t easy, but it was so very easy to trill sweetly when Wade tried so hard to pile mushrooms and wild carrots on the plate along with nuts and berries he found around the property.

“I thought you said I had to find my own salad.” Peter teased one night as Wade produced an entire bowl of gathered greens. “Are you a gatherer now, Wade?”

“It took you so long to milk the goat, I figured I should help you out with the salad thing.” Wade deadpanned, and Peter laughed at him, clear and cheerful and the Alpha only rumbled in response, closing his eyes to inhale sweet happy Omega scent.

Nothing about this life was easy, but it was so easy to live this life with Wade, Peter found himself forgetting this all had an expiration date.

He could stay here forever.

*****************

SAY SOMETHING ABOUT THE CHAPTER!

*****************

@ships-galore @ceealaina @izziebladez @cwar1864 @hausoffro @lookuplaughing @tonystarkisanangel @multishippinglife @girlnic @iam93percentstardust @water-colouredmemories @paranormalmoonlight5 @igotloki @moosette05 @wayward-student-philosopher @kaz-brekkers-gloves @atomicfandombomb @desitonystark @ricecakeandhoney @ardatlily @fawnandgays @bibbarnes @blackstar1602 @hi-inevitable-im-deadpool @scientifically-lesbian-jesus @the-pagely-gun-slinger @oshuncheyenne @the-dragonwolf-den @pumpkin-spidey @sozvuchiy @cappunico @chiby-chan@bluedreamdino @tired-dragons01 @ahumoki0

#ncts fics #spideypool #peter parker #wade wilson #cable #time travel #abo dynamics #soulmates #hank pym #alpha wade wilson #omega peter parker

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olimpiacroy · 4 years

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hshqtask46 ⸻ family dynamic 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐘𝐒

❝ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁱᵗ ᵐᵘˢᵗ ᵇᵉ ᵏⁿᵒʷⁿ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵃˡˡ ᵗʰⁱⁿᵍˢ ᵇᵉᵃᵘᵗⁱᶠᵘˡ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜᵃᵖᵃᶜⁱᵗʸ ᵒᶠ ᵇᵉⁱⁿᵍ ᵈʳᵉᵃᵈᶠᵘˡˡʸ ʷⁱᶜᵏᵉᵈ. ᵇᵉᵃᵘᵗⁱᶠᵘˡ ᵖᵉᵒᵖˡᵉ, ᵇᵉᵃᵘᵗⁱᶠᵘˡ ˢᵒᵘˡˢ, ᵇᵉᵃᵘᵗⁱᶠᵘˡ ᵐⁱⁿᵈˢ. ᵃ ˡⁱⁿᵉ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵃˡʷᵃʸˢ ᵇᵉ ᶜʳᵒˢˢᵉᵈ ᵃⁿᵈ ʷʰᵃᵗ ˡⁱᵉˢ ᵇᵉʰⁱⁿᵈ ᶜᵃⁿ ᵇᵉ ᶠᵉᵃʳˢᵒᵐᵉ. ❞

i started working on a croÿ aesthetic board and decided to put into words all the things we’ve discussed over the years ! the focus is mainly on fanni, tekla & olimpia... because this also has elements of the psyche task. but this is more or less an explanation of the family dynamic rather than just an explanation of olimpia’s relationship with her family. ( @lcvcntc, @tvkla, @fannicroy ) ( and also i hope y’all agree with what i’ve written because otherwise this is embarrassing )

Ⅰ ⸻ The Croÿ dynasty is not much of a dynasty. The Croÿ family are pretty much the nouveau riche of royalty. There is no Saxe-Coburg, Braganza,Habsburg, Bourbon or Schleswig-Holstein blood mixed in with the Croÿ blood ( more on that if hails ever finishes the modern history task ). People don’t necessarily bring it up, it would be a weird thing to do, not to mention difficult now that three generations of Croÿs have sat on the Hungarian throne, however it’s something that hangs over the Hungarians’ heads. They aren’t a dynasty. They don’t have a family tree that can be traced all the way to the the 12th century. There’s a subconscious effort to prove themselves.

Ⅱ ⸻ So blame it on the subconscious need to be equals with other royals or on the outdated societal norms of Hungary but the Croÿs, especially the Croÿ women, have always played a role. They have fitted themselves inside a mold and adopted mannerism and personality traits in order to appear to be the best Croÿ-approved version of themselves. It’s not by design, it’s due to the conditioning that happens without anyone noticing. It there is almost only one way to flourish as a Croÿ and if you stray too far away from what is desired and accepted, you’ll be cut down. By your own blood. The Croÿs are as demanding as they are well-meaning. It happens slowly: you stop receiving compliments and praises from other members of the family, then comes quick and almost casual comments, then comes actual criticism, and eventually the family that speaks loudly about being there for you makes you an outcast. To be fair, you’ve brought it on yourself if that happens. At least partly. The Croÿs believe in unity but it’s clear that each and every one of them is deeply selfish. Sometimes that selfishness isn’t put aside for the good of the family: Levente and his infidelity, Fanni never trying to ease Tekla’s burden, ( up for debate but ) Tekla leaving Hungary, and Olimpia concentrating on her own thing, not bothering to match her siblings’ sacrifices. They’ll help, protect, fight for their family members as long as the personal sacrifice isn’t too great.

Ⅲ ⸻ The youngest generation ( or... second youngest since nilsa and katya exist ) have bent the rules a bit but not enough. Fanni didn’t end up like that by accident, Tekla doesn’t breathe easier in Copenhagen for no reason, Levente is not emotionally guarded because he wants to be, and Olimpia isn’t drawn to the people who are her antitheses because she finds them interesting. Fanni and Levente are examples of what happens when you accept your role without a single question. It’s why the two are a team too. They haven’t learnt to look outside of Budapest. Hungary first, then the family, and then themselves. Tekla is arguably the smartest one out of the group for creating something for herself on her own terms. Olimpia’s saving grace is the fact that she’s some years younger than her siblings and was never made to partake in politics.

Ⅳ ⸻ ( okay my love for the tekla-fanni parallels is infinite ) Tekla and Fanni are the perfect way to assess the Croÿ family. Tekla was born unlucky, there really is no other way to put it. So you have the two Hungarians growing up together, as close as sisters, and you have the absolutely unfair difference in the treatments they receive. Fanni is not harassed, all her decisions are supported and she is lead onto the right path. It’s easy for her to slip into the mold: it’s so safe and shiny. People adore her for doing what is correct. Why would she challenge an institution that treats her so nicely. Then we have Tekla who, in theory, should get everything Fanni’s getting. The adoration, the attention, the unconditional love. That doesn’t come. People keep challenging Tekla, try to pigeon hole her into a role that doesn’t quite fit... maybe because it’s so directly in Fanni’s shadow for no good reason. The girls, the young women they stay close until Tekla leaves and gets her own life. Tekla thrives outside of Hungary since the expectations are different. They aren’t lower by any means but her worth isn’t based on the angle of her chin and the straightness of her back. She exists as a person, not as a woman.

Ⅴ ⸻ The real problem with the Croÿs is that the game is rigged for the female members of the clan. There is no way to win. Levente’s issues sprout from toxic masculinity and the unrealistic expectations that have been placed on him but he doesn’t need to strive to be something impossible. People will even let him trip a few times. Olimpia is dumb and essentially worthless since she isn’t hard-working ( in the right useful way ), never mind she’s barely past her mid-twenties. Tekla is selfish and difficult for having created something for herself... and Fanni is simple and embarrassing for not having created anything for herself. You can see it in the way Levente talks to the women: Olimpia is just the annoying little sister, Tekla deserves respect but only if it is delivered with a small amount of guilt tripping, and Fanni is a book he has read a dozen times and has lost interest in a long time ago. How can you be ambitious but dutiful at the same time? When each one of your accomplishments is the family’s accomplishments, not yours? How can you be loyal but independent when doing something on your own makes you a turncoat?

Ⅵ ⸻ The Croÿs, however, are a forgiving bunch. Every fight gets forgotten almost immediately. If it lasts longer than a week, someone is just making a point. If it lasts for months... well, then someone needs to get on their knees and beg for forgiveness. Fights are explosive but it has a lot to do with the way the Croÿs express themselves. They know how to add bite to their words and it’s an efficient way to get a point through. Fights are great for introspection too since family members tend to pick out your worst flaws, the things you truly, without a doubt, work on. It’s a raw way to communicate but it’s an honest way. The Croÿs have no need for secrets since they know the family will stand behind them no matter what. Even through the most questionable decisions. The transparency is what makes them strong. They can lie to others, not to each other. It’s an unspoken rule. Something will break if words are swallowed instead of spoken.

Ⅶ ⸻ And one last word on loyalty. It’s unconditional. It’s why it’s difficult to be an outsider among the Croÿs. New members struggle at first because the family’s mentality is difficult to understand at first. The fights are impossible to grasp: how can you claim to love someone so much and still scream such cruel things at them? The Croÿs expect honesty, they expect unfiltered words, they expect to see the ugliest parts of you. Family knows you through and through and still accepts you ( though among the Croÿs the worst bumps in your person will be gotten rid of ). No one else knows you like family does, no one else could ever accept you like family. Family is strength and that strength comes from loyalty. You keep your lips sealed and lie and lie and lie if it’s necessarily. Among the Croÿs it’s a greater crime to be disloyal than unjust. Sylvia will learn it the hard way.

#task.#tekla g.#levente c.#fanni c.#hshqtask046

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residentanchor · 6 years

Text

Impractical- Logan’s Origins

Roman’s Story Virgil’s Story Patton’s Story Master List Character List

Hearing about some knucklehead running around in a ridiculous costume stopping muggers and risking their safety for nothing more than ‘doing the right thing’ led Logan to believe that the mysterious Masked Prince was a complete fool.

Saving those few didn’t stop the large onslaught of crime the city suffered every day and the moron was going to get hurt one day and it would be his fault and his fault alone. He had completely written off the so-called hero until he overheard a conversation one day while he worked at the bookstore. The patrons huddled in a corner as they were talking, watching a phone play a video of one of the Masked Prince’s heroic acts. A series of gasps had caught his attention and the chatter that followed was far more interesting.

“Where did that light come from?”

“Dude, he shot lightning from his hands!”

“This has to be fake, no way any of this is real.”

When Logan returned home to the quiet he had grown used to, his eyes drifted from the crossword he was working on to his laptop sitting to the side. After minutes of mentally debating with himself, Logan reached over and typed in a quick search for this prince. A few minutes later and he was watching a video taken from someone’s phone that depicted something he would never have believed.

Someone else had powers.

He had wrongly assumed his psychokinesis was an evolutionary mutation and not something that could replicate into something so… flashy. Minutes turned to hours as he searched everything he could, watching every clip and taking notes on everything the prince had done. He had come to one simple conclusion… he had to meet this prince and figure out how his powers worked.

Logan thought about every scenario about how he could get the Masked Prince to talk to him long enough for Logan to trap him and figure this out. He could easily take the prince out with his powers, but after what had happened last time… it was too risky. Eventually, Logan took the most logical step that he could think of. So he donned a mask and started putting together a costume himself, hoping it would attract the Masked Prince to him.

Logan found the internet to be a wonderful source of information for a number of things, such as figuring out how to attach a pair of glasses to a mask so he could wear it and still be able to see. He had taken an old pair that he no longer wore and adjusted them properly, even adding a strap to the ends so it wouldn’t slide off of his face. A bit of research helped with the rest of his costume as well. He needed something warm but breathable and practical that still fit the aesthetic enough to attract the prince to him.

Logan ended up buying a lot of things he altered slightly and tossed together. A form-fitting long sleeve shirt underneath a sleeveless tank top made it so he wouldn’t swelter in the heat but could stay warm as he moved. The pants were fitted with pads in the knees and back in case he fell and he wore black hiking boots to help him run around and climb anything he would need. Of course, he also purchased a small pouch that wrapped around his waist like a belt. While he wore it all, it didn’t quite fit what he was going for. So, after a quick search, Logan purchased a lab coat to toss over everything else and tie it all together.

Now with an outfit figured out came the tricky part. How was he going to trap the hero? Metal was a no go and he was physically stronger than Logan was so that led to him having to outsmart the prince, but he wasn’t even sure he knew where to start looking.

Eventually, while planning it all out, Logan was watching the news with interest one night. Prince Charging as he was now called was having a standoff with a car thief that turned sour. The Prince was hiding behind a car as he pulled out what Logan could only assume was some carbonated beverage and drink from it frantically. The news reporters refused to get much closer for safety reasons as Prince Charging rolled out of his spot and held up his hands, a static shield forming from his hands and keeping him safe. While the bullets couldn’t reach their target, it still seemed to take a lot of energy from the hero who seemed to be struggling with his predicament.

Then a new hero showed himself.

He and the prince were suddenly on the ground, scrambling to get back up. The purple hero tugged the scarf over his mouth as he turned and vanished, appearing behind the criminal and taking care of him swiftly. The prince came in and took him out at the last second, stopping the firefight after almost an hour of back and forth. The camera crew ran up to the new hero, his black and white mask mimicking Prince Chargings in a way. They shouted questions and hoped to get any sort of an answer from this new stranger. He simply gave his name, which he mumbled out through the scarf, and vanished from sight.

At the end of it all, Logan leaned back and stared blankly at his television before smiling. A teleporting hero was tricky to catch but a lot easier to keep trapped than Prince Charging would have been.

Logan got quite lucky, actually. He had a few backup plans and he wasn’t quite sure what would work. His first plan was simply a pair of handcuffs in hopes that the new hero, this Vigilante, couldn’t teleport out of them. However, it would hopefully stop him long enough to pull out one of his backups and stop the hero while he could.

When Logan spotted him that night, he was standing in an alleyway, seemingly giving himself a pep talk. Logan approached slowly and called out to him, holding his hands up in defense.

The Vigilante pushed away from the wall and eyed him carefully as he approached. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

A name. Logan thought of everything… but he never thought of a name?!

“That… isn’t important. I just came out because I saw you on the news. You did well in helping out the Prince.”

The hero looked back at him and turned away, giving a shrug. “It was nothing. What do you really want?”

Logan kept his hands up as he approached. “Nothing more than to talk. You and this Prince seem to hold special abilities, not unlike myself.” The Vigilante shot him a look but did not speak. “It was just surprising to see others out and about, I wanted to see it for myself, make sure it was real.”

Logan had gotten close enough and waited a moment, making sure the hero wouldn’t move. Then, he reached out and grabbed his arm, slapping half of the cuffs on his wrist before attaching the other end to a nearby pipe.

“HEY!” The Vigilante pulled his wrist away before turning and growling at him, reaching out and stopping once Logan backed away out of reach. “Let me go. Now.”

“I’m afraid I wish to have a word with you and this seems to be the most logical and optimal way.”

The Vigilante seemed to jump around before turning to Logan and hissing. Taken back by the action, Logan only watched as he grew more desperate. “Get me out of this before I make you regret it!”

“Fascinating, I wasn’t sure that would work.” Logan turned and walked around the hero, keeping out of his reach. “So you seem to teleport but you can’t escape the handcuffs. You must bring what is attached to you when you do. Quite interesting.”

“What’s interesting is going to be the sound your nose makes when I bash it in!” The hero pulled at the cuffs, turning and yanking on them once more. “Get me out of these! NOW!”

“See, that would be counterproductive. Why would I let you go when I have just ensnared you?”

The hero got as close to Logan as he could. “Because the sooner you let me go, the quicker I will make it when I smash your face in.”

“Now, that just makes me want to leave you like this.” Logan watched the man glare him down as he leaned in closer. “Though, I suppose I could remove your mask and simply learn who you are.”

“Do it.” He bit out, snarling at Logan. “I’d like to see you try. Come on, get closer.”

Logan hummed to himself as he watched the entrapped hero. “So, how much do you know about the Masked Prince’s abilities? You’ve seen them first hand, I’m curious to your thoughts on the matter.”

The Vigilante stopped and took a step back. “That’s what this is about? You’re no hero, you’re an asshole trying to figure out how to stop us! Well, I’m not talking!”

Logan rolled his eyes and tapped the side of his glasses behind his mask. “That’s fine, I don’t need you to talk if I don’t have to.” His eyes started to glow gold behind his mask, causing the hero to back away carefully.

‘What is this guy’s deal? Oh shit, his eyes… he is like us! This makes everything worse, of course, he has powers. What can he do? Is it mind powers? Wait, can he read my mind? Quick, think of anything else! Anything! Uh… What was that song I liked as a kid again?’

Logan blinked as the light of his eyes died out. “Are you really thinking about the song from the band Hanson from twenty years ago?”

“Ha, I knew it!” He pointed his free hand at the other. “You can read minds! Well, read this, jerk!”

Logan sighed and crossed his arms. “Well, that’s a bit uncalled for, don’t you think? I simply want some answers.”

“So you take them without asking? What kind of entitled prick do you think you are?”

Logan watched the Vigilante back against the wall but kept his head up as he stared him down defiantly. “I suppose this was not the most ideal way to handle this situation. I also do not see me gaining any further information without forcibly taking it.” Logan dug into his pouch and pulled out the key. “I suppose I can let you have this and be on my way so you may free yourself.”

The hero looked at Logan and glanced down before his nose wrinkled in disgust. “Is that a fanny pack? Really?”

Logan held out a hand as his eyes shined once more, the key levitating up from it and over to the other. “Here is your means of freedom. I shall be on my way.”

As soon as the key dropped, Virgil reached for it and grabbed it as quick as he could. As he finally managed to unlock the cuffs, he looked up and found himself completely alone.

@tatergator27 @helloisthisusernametaken @entitydark @lightningbug04 @moonstone-fox @rampantlesbian @echomist13 @another-sandersidesblog @thesynysterunknown @roo-kangas @singjoanna @unikornavenger @rememberfateau-nowoffical @sanders-sides-trasshcan @sleepyssnail @jemthebookworm @spectralheartt @fandomsofrandom @johnlaurensadmirer-johnsenpaiowo

#sanders sides #Sanders Sides Au idea #practicality fic #impractical au #ts logan #superhero au #superpower au #practicality au

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awesomelisaremoaner-blog · 5 years

Text

Combatting Cummings Communications Campaign

So, here they are.

Three road-tested and ready to go campaign messages designed to strike at the wavering hearts of a few hundred thousand people in a smattering of marginal constituencies that Dominic Cummings knows he needs to win if he is to save Brexit and place Boris ‘Bozza’ Johnson on the Iron Throne of rUK until god knows when.

These simple, pared-back statements have been focus-grouped to death, and are now finely-honed weapons of mass persuasion. They are to be feared.

They will be repeated ENDLESSLY by the Conservativeratti, hoping that, over time, the statements will smash their way into the consciousnesses of ordinary people, grab ahold of their amygdalas, and squeeze a vote for the Tories out of their ordinary hands.

But there are two great things about these statements:

1. They tell us lots about what Dominic Cummings has learnt from his focus groups

2. They can be killed.

Let’s deal with point 2 first.

Behavioural science tells us that if you keep repeating a statement enough, eventually it will become truth. This is why Donald Trump says ‘Fake News’ a lot. If you keep repeating something that taps into people’s emotions, you will have an even easier job. And if that thing you repeat is very simple to say, job is most definitely a goodun.

These days lots of bad people on the depressing side of politics have worked this out, and the internet is abuzz with the sounds of bite-size populist sentiments pouring unwantedly into the minds of defenceless populaces, from Budapest to Beijing.

BUT – behavioural science also tells us how to effectively debunk these unhealthy mind viruses, strip them of their power and turn them into weapons that actually do the opposite of what was originally intended, like a re-programmed Terminator.

This was done to some effect in the 2017 election, when Theresa May’s ‘Strong and Stable’ message gradually became paired with a ‘Weak and Wobbly’ counter-message (on t’internet at least), which – allied with her increasingly wobbly performances - made repeating the phrase more of a liability than a strength. By the end of the campaign they had stopped using it altogether.

And that’s what we are going to try and do this time around – take super-villian Dominic’s campaign messages apart, and reconstitute them as something remain-y.

This is an eminently winnable fight. The Conservative victory absolutely depends on getting the kind of people who hate Brexit but also hate Jeremy Corbyn and thought Ed Miliband was a bit wet to say ‘fuck it, there’s no one else, I have to vote for Boris fucking Johnson because I am a Conservative voter’.

whereas, our victory depends on getting these lovely people to say “I don’t feel good about voting for Boris Johnson, and I never wanted Brexit anyway.” And then either voting for someone else or just going to the pub and saying fuck it all and not voting.

By the way - they are not going to vote for Corbyn, okay?

I know loads of these people, and so do you. They feel politically homeless and are ripe for conversion.

So, what does behavioural science say about how exactly you counter Dominic’s misinformation? Well, there are certain key principles:

1. Never re-state the myth. In 2017, too many people would say “it doesn’t sound very ‘Strong and Stable’ if you can’t turn up to your own debate. Sounds more like weakness”. This is wrong, wrong, wrong. All you are doing is strengthening the phrase ‘Strong and stable’ in someone’s mind. No, instead you must have a…

2. Persuasive alternative counter message. Which you repeat anytime you come across the original. This counter message should directly relate to the original message (e.g. ‘weak and wobbly’ scans like ‘strong and stable’), and it should contradict its impact.

3. It should be simply expressed

4. It should be framed to appeal to YOUR audience.

So, let’s look at the three Conservative statements and see what they can tell us about how to destroy them. Here they are:

1. We will get Brexit done by October 31st

2. We are the Party of the people

3. We will take this country forward.

I am going to deal with the last one first, as I think this is the common theme that will underpin a lot of what the Tories try to do over the next few weeks.

We will take this country forward

It’s clear that much of the clash and thunder of Bozza’s arrival in Number 10 over the last few weeks have been about creating the illusion of busyness and purpose. ‘At least he is doing something’ cries Dominic’s target audience, and this message is designed to appeal further to that powerful sentiment of frustration.

This central idea of forward momentum, impetus, activity, inevitability is going to be big for the Tories. They will complain that they were dragged into an election they did not want, and only they, not the squabbling remainers or even parliament as a whole, have the sense of initiative to get us out of the morass.

And it makes some intuitive sense. They do have a plan (a stupid, self-serving one), and they are certainly very focused on winning over the next few weeks (for the benefit of the Conservative party if not the country). So, you can’t challenge this myth by saying, “no, you are not going forward”. They are most definitely in motion.

What you have to say instead is “But they are heading in the wrong direction.”

It’s that simple: “The Tories are steering Britain in the wrong direction.”

Easy. Say that whenever you hear this ‘going forward’ line, and it will become a rock of Kryptonite around the neck for them.

Or, in the mocked-up parody campaign posters: ‘We are taking this country in the wrong direction” under a big picture of Boris’ mug.

Of course, you will have to be able to justify why you think they are pointing us in the wrong direction – but as soon as you do that you have WON, because now we are not talking about ‘forward’, but about ‘wrong direction’.

And it’s easy to justify, because not only is Brexit a BAD thing, but also they are spectacularly unprepared for any of the logistical issues of either shit Brexit, or terrifically shit Brexit, PLUS they are not going to get any meaningful changes to a thrice-rejected deal so we are either going to be a vassal state or watching fist fights breakout in chemists all over the country over the availability of Epipens or both.

See – wrong direction.

Which brings me to point 1.

We will get Brexit done by October 31st

So, once again, the way to deal with this is not to say ‘no, you won’t’, or ‘it’s a coup and the Queen will stop you’ or anything else silly – that will not appeal to our target audience.

The power of this statement comes from (1) implying that the endless debates and fannying about around Brexit will be over if we just lie back and let Bozza get on with it, and (2) that this is not such a bad thing after all – in fact it’s all fine and we might as well be cheered by his jollying, can-do demeanour rather be positively sickened by it.

It’s key to challenge this ‘not such a bad thing after all’ emotion with its converse – Brexit is in fact a terrible, terrible thing (for many of the reasons listed above).

To this end, we have had a stroke of good luck, courtesy of Theresa May no less, who managed to delay the date of Brexit doom to October 31st. Or Halloween.

Yes, Halloween.

Brexit is coming on Halloween.

And thus it is easy to pair evil with evil in the mind of the floating voter.

There are many possible permutations, e.g.:

· Boris’ Halloween Horror Show is coming

· It’ll be a real fright night this Halloween

· Don’t let your kids see what Weird Uncle Boris has planned for them, etc.

The important thing is to pair the October the 31st thing with fear.

And yes, here at last we can use Project Fear to our advantage. If someone mentions it, we can say “Yes, it is Project Fear – because Boris is about to make Project Fear a reality – on Halloween... Steve Barclay said last week they haven’t even started talking yet about how to keep car parts supply chains running after Brexit – WTF?!”

See – turn their weapons on them.

This can be fun, this can be playful. We can make memes where Boris is a scary clown. We can make jokes. We can make deep fakes.

The important thing is October 31st stops being a nothingburger, and starts being something that people might want to think carefully about before rushing headlong into it.

So we have:

· Boris’ Halloween Horror Show is coming

· He’s steering Britain in the wrong direction!

I think these two ideas play well off what I imagine are Bozza’s brand weaknesses - his underlying associations with being reckless, slapdash, mendacious and spivvy. Our target voter has all these doubts about him too.

We are the Party of the people

So this is the Tories attempt to roll their tanks on to traditional Labour territory, by indicating that they are the true champions of the 2016 popular vote, PLUS this probably also encapsulates their crowd pleasing policies on the NHS, policing and crime.

You can’t challenge this by pointing out (as I am sure Labour supporters are minded to do) that no they are bloody not the Party of the people. Trying to explain who actually influences Tory policy and how that tends not to benefit the person in the street is all a bit ‘yawn’ and won’t actually register with disengaged voters.

No, we need something cleverer and something that skewers the meaning at the heart of the message.

I think the solution is two fold:

One – the statement refers to ‘the people’ like we were one big homogenous mass of dutiful subjects, but the truth is vast swathes of the country are not reconciled to Brexit and never will be. They are in open rebellion against their flagship policy.

Most polls show more than 50% support for remain these days – so even those soft Tory voters who are leaning towards voting for him for want of any other obvious candidate do not feel truly represented by him.

Boris is acting like he is the unifying figure that can bring the country back together, and this is where we must challenge the statement. He is not uniting us at all. We are a divided people.

And this gives us the key to unravel the second part of the sentence – that reference to the big P Conservative Party.

The sentence implies that the Conservative party is acting with one voice (trying desperately to draw on that ‘stability’ that they have long ago squandered) – but the plain truth is they are divided too.

MPs are resigning, others are in open rebellion and the executive is calling for de-selection. They, like the people are split down the middle.

So there you have it:

“A divided party can never unite our country”.

The final message:

· Boris’ Halloween Horror Show is coming

· His divided party can never unite our country

· He’s steering Britain in the wrong direction!

Getting the message out

It’s clear from 2016 that Dominic has lots of whizzy tools for targeting his message where it needs to go, and you may not.

But you do know soft Tories, lots of them.

What you need to do now is to deliver this message – by sharing it on social media – into the heart of the conversation about who should run our country so it changes the dialogue and makes everything they try to do work against them.

You are like Han Solo flying the Millenium Falcon deep inside the Death Star, Frodo lobbing Gollum into the Cracks of Doom, Arya pulling the knife-drop trick on the Night King. Watch the waves of destruction spread.

Thanks for listening and good luck.

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mondofunnybooks · 5 years

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MONDO FUNNYBOOKS; HITLER, BREXIT THE COMIC ,WEIRD INDIAN GAY PORN AND SADDAM HUSSEIN ON AN OSTRICH!

There was a time where comic creators worked to cause up a stink. Keith Giffen shot a comic (We're still after one, please, Dave or anyone else who worked for Blackball.) Kevin Maguire made ALL of Steve Rogers embossed. Spawn shipped 2 issues out of order. Lobo punched God in the face. Kyle Rayner became a Green Lantern. Barry Windsor Smith said some of the early Image Comics were a bit rubbish while promoting his new book 'Storyteller'. Youngblood: Year One would feature fully painted art by Rob Liefeld, akin to just released hit 'Marvels', featuring painted art by Alex Ross. Tom DeFalco famously declared his new ongoing from Marvel, 'Sleepwalker', would be 'Sandman' done right.

Copies of Sleepwalker are usually found in cheap bins across the Western hemisphere so feel free to judge for yourself how successful he was with that.

But for our money, nobody stirred up trouble like Gregarious Grant Morrison. His interview alongside Mark Millar with Comics World to promote their upcoming mini-series 'Skrull Kill Krew' remains one of the funniest moments of 'What a load of old bollocks this is!' vindictiveness since John Buscema told everyone in his art class to swipe since 'this stuff ain't going in the Lourve, pal.' Some of the less informed American hype rags attempted to suggest that SKK was the natural sequel to Zenith since it would see Morrison reunite with his partner in crime: Steve Yeowell.

Which either means they didn't know, or thought it wiser not to mention a strip that ran in Crisis circa 1990 called 'New Adventures Of Hitler'.

We'll come back to Crisis in more depth because it's probably the answer to the question a lot of the UK retailers are asking at the moment: How do we get people reading comics again. Crisis or something like it would be a good attempt, featuring a ton of original strips in a format that didn't suggest it ought to be stocked amongst a bunch of plastic bags full of toys and a magazine. Crisis also featured two of our favourite stories: 'Dare' which finished off from the sadly cancelled Revolver (Again, more another time.) as created by Grant and Rian Hughes and 'Trip To Tulum'. Which oddly was the only way to find the English translation of the collaboration by Milo Manara and Federico Fellini for quite a long time. God knows how they even got that in the first place.

NAH featured in issues 46-49 and surprised a few newsagents opening their delivery at 5am across the UK when confronted with 'Mr Hitler's Holiday', featuring your man from The Third on a bike against a dirty lurid purple cover. NAH concerned itself with Adolf taking a trip to Liverpool from 1912-1913 and learning a few tricks about fascism from the English while reality warps itself silly around the wee lad. Morrisey shows up singing 'Heaven Knows i'm Miserable Now'. A bunch of randoms begin chanting 'Hitler Has Only Got One Ball' on a bus he's on leaving the future Fuhrer mystified and mortified.

'NAH' originally ran in something called 'Cut' magazine but one of the editors, also someone from a band called 'Hue & Cry' having a strop so either 'Cut' itself stopped or at least stopped running the story. In any event, it migrated over to Crisis. It's rather excellent and while we don't know who owns the rights to it, it's one of those things that really ought to be in print.

Speaking of which......

Those more in the know will have to explain it to us, because the common answer is 'Because Grant and Mark aren't friends anymore.' and we're not sure that's how book publishing works, but the question is obviously 'Why isn't Big Dave in print?' If ANY comic were a timely insight into the mindset of the Brexit voting population of the UK, 'Big Dave' prophetically nails it like a time bullet fired from 1993. Essentially a high budget Viz strip beautifully pencilled by Steve Parkhouse, BD is a series of increasing ludricious adventures featuring that wide necked bloke in an England shirt with a bulldog tattooed to his forehead you see every St George's Day with a copy of The Sun in his back packet. It is ludicriously sexist, homophobic, racist and pro-monarchy.

Or at least the character is. Quite a few people seemed to confuse 'the portrayal of an attitude' with 'the glorfication of same attitude'. 2000AD apparently getting a bit narky if you bring this not being in print up. Frankly, if you don't find Dave having a threesome with Princess Di and Sarah Ferguson funny, you're probably reading the wrong column. We'd like to see this back in print. And please, please do not feel compelled to update this strip the same way 'DR & Quinch' was earlier this year. We'll stick that little relaunch in the same bin as the 'Femme Fatales/What if our artists swiped from Loaded and stuck some 2000AD related costumes on the art.' supplement from 1994, aye?

Finally, we go from the unreprintable to the never even published and perhaps not even written!

Unless somebody does something incredible, we will probably go to our graves saying that 'Kill Your Boyfriend' by Morrison & Bond is the best single story in comics ever published. This, before old men start getting heart attacks, does not include long form series, mini-series, single graphic novels, cartoon strips, etc. In terms of a story that starts, continues and ends in one issue with no knowledge of any other comic ever published, KYB is it. It brings up and destroys the notion of the personality as anything other than a series of reactions to various traumas and conditioning far faster than 'The Dice Man' does and with much funnier results. It could be read as the documentation of how a good acid trip will crack the inner monologue of the ego and set your inner self free, if you were of such a mind. It's certainly one of the best things Vertigo ever did.

'KYB' was part of a line called 'Vertigo Voices' published in 1995. The other books were 'Faces' by Pete 'Shade' The Changing Man'* Milligan and Duncan 'Oh, all the good things' Fegredo a book about why is plastic surgery and what does it say about us that we've conditioned ourselves to believe that there is such a thing as an imperfect face. Also 'Tainted' by Delano and Davidson (we've not read it, but the line up is well sound) and another book that we'll come back to in a bit but what's relevant here is that there was meant to be another comic in this line.

That comic would have been 'Bizarre Boys' by Grant Morrison, Pete Milligan and Jamie Hewlett.

The legend is that a suitably refreshed Grant and Pete were out in India and were looking around at various stalls filled with magazines, amidst the chaos the publication 'Bizarre Boys' caught their eye and was so outlandish (we're not Googling it, but nor are we stopping you from doing so.) that they committed right there to sell a comic with the same title to Vertigo. It got as far as being previewed in Spin Nov 1994 along with talk of an Invisibles TV Show (and come on. PLEASE. Netflix has cleared the deck of all the boring Marvel Superhero things so now is the PERFECT time for the adventures of Lord Fanny And The Other Ones.) but somewhere along the line it simply dropped from the publication schedule with no word of why, although as the comic was to be a fictional biography of Milligan and Morrison's alter egos, it's suggested that they were too busy living the life to settle down long enough to document.

We'd have to make the point that an oral account of the Vertigo offices circa 1994-1996 as spoken by Pete and Grant while drawn by Jamie would be a far more interesting thing to bring us back to the shops for new comics than, well, Tank Girl or Green Lantern.

The following pitch ran as part of The Time Is Now: DC Comics' Editorial Presentation 1994.

'Here's the solicitation copy for Bizarre Boys, which ran as part of The VERTIGO does what it does best in VERTIGO VOICES - a new umbrella title for four distinctive one-shots - where four of VERTIGO's most creatively deranged writers give voice to their most outrageous, gripping and graphic imaginings. Each "VOICE" delivers its own sound, in turn hyperreal, darkly disturbing, irreverent, and biting. FACE is the first "VOICE" to be heard, followed by KILL YOUR BOYFRIEND, and closing with BIZARRE BOYS. These are stories with sounds all their own, tearing a jagged rip through reality.

BIZARRE BOYS, VERTIGO VOICES' most irreverent title, is a story within a story within a story. It's about some fictional characters called the Bizarre Boys, and about the writers who write them and about the writers who are writing about the writers... There are two voices telling the tale of BIZARRE BOYS, and they don't agree with each other at all.

BIZARRE BOYS is a comic about a comic and about the process of putting together a comic. It's a sparkling tapestry of post-modernism and a fast- moving breathless chase across time and space.

It all takes place - naturally - on Bizarre Boys Day, when writers Peter Milligan (SHADE, THE CHANGING MAN) and Grant Morrison (THE INVISIBLES) join forces with artist Jamie Hewlett (SHADE, THE CHANGING MAN, Tank Girl) to tell the tale of two writers called Millison and Morrigan, and their fabulous creations, The Bizarre Boys. Echoing James Joyce's Bloomsday, whatever events happen on Bizarre Boys Day also happen in the comic.

As the two writers begin their quest for the fantastic Bizarre Boys, whose sweat contains miraculous healing and hallucinogenic properties, these latter-day Brothers Grimm weave some dissolute modern fairy tales, take the wraps off the creative process itself, and tell a joke or three.'

We're told by inside sources that elements of 'Bizarre Boys' ran in the final book of The Vertigo Voices line: 'The Eaters' as drawn by Dean Ormston and Pete Milligan.

And that's us for now. What do YOU think? Should these projects remain in the dustbin of FunnyBook History? Maybe Kickstarters, er, started to try and release them as independent books (Lord knows if Cyberfrog can be a thing again, then...) Amazon have begun publishing comics directly from creators like Kyle Baker and Rick Veitch, which could sidestep the whole 'Comics are for kids so why is this in Sainsbury's!?' furor all over again. Image has put out some fairly anondyne nonsense lately and could do with something like this in their line-up. Let us know in the comments and as ever we'll see you in The FunnyPages.

(Big Dave ran as part of 2000AD's 'Summer Offensive' in 1993, some of the most fun the Progs have ever been. Big Dave features in the following issues*:)

"Target Baghdad" (with Steve Parkhouse, in 2000 AD #842–845, 1993) "Monarchy in the UK" (with Steve Parkhouse, in 2000 AD #846–849, 1993) "Young Dave" (with Steve Parkhouse, in 2000AD Yearbook 1994, 1993) "Costa del Chaos" (with Anthony Williams, in 2000 AD #869–872, 1994) "Wotta Lotta Balls" (with Steve Parkhouse, in 2000 AD #904–907, 1994)

*according to Wiki, anyway.

'New Adventures Of Hitler' can be found in Crisis: #46 - 49.

#Grant Morrison #Mark Millar #2000AD #New Adventures Of Hitler #Crisis #Skrull Kill Krew #Zenith #Vertigo #Steve Parkhouse #Phillip Bond #Steve Yeowell #DC #Jamie Hewlett

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becauseimsensational · 6 years

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Killing Eve rewatch: “Sorry Baby”

The last time we saw Eve is a stark contrast to the first time we see her in this episode. At the end of “Don’t I Know You?” she was screaming and crying out for her best friend and partner of over a decade who’s just been murdered; at the beginning of “Sorry Baby,” she’s silent and standing still, quietly seething at Bill’s memorial service while everyone around her is singing hymns. Not only is she devastated at Bill’s death, she’s furious. He died for no reason, he was only there because she insisted, and then Frank ‘Dickswab’ Haleton has the audacity to give Bill’s eulogy? Eve is visibly and at times audibly displeased with what Frank’s saying, because he’s lying through his teeth. He didn’t know Bill all that well, and he fired the both of them; surely his wife knew that, even if she doesn’t know the true circumstances of his death? I think what finally tipped Eve over the edge was Bill’s daughter crying. It was too much, knowing that the last time she was Bill holding her, he jokingly predicted his own death. (Lots more analysis under the cut)

Eve telling Elena she wants to kill Villanelle is a dramatic shift in her characterization. I hesitate to call it “growth,” or frame it in too positive of a light, but it’s certainly a shift. Until Villanelle murdered Bill, I think Eve’s only intentions were to find her and have an incredibly in-depth interview with her. But once she killed Bill, Eve’s focus has shifted to getting revenge and avenging Bill’s murder. What’s interesting, though, is that Eve doesn’t just say, “I want her dead,” she says, “I want to kill her with my bare hands.” To me, that line means that when Eve finds her, she’s going to strangle her. (I say strangle because I don’t really think Eve’s got the upper body strength/psychopathy it takes to beat someone to death with just her fists.) If that’s what she meant, that’s a huge departure from the mild-mannered MI-5 security officer we met who screamed bloody murder because she fell asleep on both her arms. Now, I am not a psychologist by any stretch, but I’d like to think that my psychology and forensics classes and all those seasons of Criminal Minds I watched religiously have finally come in handy. Strangulation is a crime which suggests that the perpetrator had a personal vendetta against the victim, but it’s also a crime of power and dominance that requires physical strength and emotional/moral (i guess?) dissociation. Thus far, Villanelle has been the sole wielder of all the power in this cat-and-mouse game she and Eve are playing; to Eve, strangling Villanelle would be the ultimate way to usurp her power and avenge Bill at the same time.

Yes, I know I’m not supposed to like Villanelle after she savagely murdered Bill, but...come on, that scene in her apartment with Konstantin was hilarious. Between the plethora of pastel balloons to the very expensive-looking cakes, not to mention her utterly ridiculous outfit, it’s hard to truly hate or revile Villanelle. She’s a ruthless killer, yes, but she’s also got this childlike whimsy about her that’s hard not to find endearing. (Plus the fake facial hair was oddly cute for some reason? Idk, I can’t explain it) The exchange in her bathroom, however, was what made that scene so memorable for me. For someone like Villanelle, I was expecting some sort of reaction when Konstantin said she’d have to work with a team; she’s too narcissistic to actually want to work with anyone else, but she’s also undeniably good at what she does. Also, I’m not an assassination-planner, but having too many people working on any kind of project is a bad idea. Surely you don’t really need three people to take out one person, right? And to me, more people at a crime scene equates to more things that can go wrong, so how anyone thought that was a good idea is still beyond me. The tension in this scene that we’re left to reconcile with comes when Villanelle implores Konstantin to open the second gift, then casually tells him it’s for his daughter. He looks horrified as she throws his earlier words back at him: “Did you think I don’t know anything?” She should never be underestimated, and no one should ever try to predict her next move; the tension here comes from her knowing something she shouldn’t know, something he clearly didn’t want her to know.

Watching Villanelle interact with Diego is just hilarious. She wants to be there, doing her job, but with other people? Not so much. Especially when one of those other people is a man with a purple Patagonia windbreaker and a contemporary bowl-cut, and to add insult to injury, he’s making her sleep in the van instead of an actual bed. This would never have happened if she was working solo, she’d get a hotel and wake up without a crick in her neck.

Her interactions with Nadia were coded differently from the very first time their eyes met onscreen. The way Villanelle said, “Oh...Your hair’s grown” indicated to me that they knew each other very well at one point, and the fact that Nadia immediately jumped on top of her to beat her was a sign that they were lovers. I’m not sure if it was because of the addition of someone from her past, but I think Villanelle showed real vulnerability in this scene. When Nadia said, “We’re here to kill a member of British intelligence,” Villanelle’s gaze instantly went to the floor and she started to pout, ever so slightly. To me, that facial expression communicated that she was worried they would be killing Eve Polastri, and before she got a chance to run her fingers through that luxurious mane. But Jodie Comer’s acting is so nuanced that I didn’t read her facial expression as that the first time I watched. It wasn’t until my second watch, when I realized they deliberately cut from Villanelle’s face to Eve’s that she was thinking about her.

Oh, Niko. Dull, paranoid Niko. I mean yes, he’s lovely and stable and a good man, but he doesn’t realize how important this is for Eve? Catching this asshole who’s sewn discord all over Europe, who now has killed her best friend? That’s all Eve wants in life. Niko? He just wants to be a maths teacher and play bridge. Pathetic. I think this is when their relationship is starting to crumble, and it doesn’t start until Eve says, “I know you care about me, Niko, we all know you care about me! Sometimes I think it’s all you have!” That’s a deep cut. She’s realizing now how dull he is, and how he’s trying to stop her from doing what will make her happy. Eve isn’t settling for boring anymore, not now that she’s MI-6 and she’s got a best friend to avenge.

Oh GOD, the suitcase reveal. I loved how at first when she unzips it, she had to look at the tag again because “wait...where are my clothes? These aren’t mine, this isn’t my—oh...I guess it is?” Until she gets to the perfume, she’s confused. And then she’s horrified. All the note says is “Sorry baby x,” but it’s enough to freak Eve out, because now she has to come to terms with Villanelle’s true intentions. Villanelle could have sent her the knife she used to stab Bill if she truly wanted to intimidate Eve, but instead she sent about 5,000£ worth of clothing, plus shoes and perfume. The clothes are all her size, which is just such an intimate thing to know about someone you’ve spoken to once in a bathroom for forty-five seconds.

I think Villanelle might have given Nadia the codename “Fanny” for a couple potential reasons. Firstly, “Fanny” is quite a rude word for “vagina” in British slang, so it’s possible she just wanted to embarrass Nadia by giving her a name that was a double entendre. The other reason, I think, is that she’s implying that that’s all Nadia was to her. Coupled with the way they interact, i.e., how close they stand, how they look at each other, if I were a first-time viewer, I’d definitely infer that they had been a couple at some point.

Of course, those suspicions are confirmed during that three-way standoff between Villanelle, Nadia, and Diego. Nadia yelling out Villanelle’s real name is a really subtle but pivotal moment for the audience, because she’s been trying to distance herself from her Russian identity this whole time. She refused to even tell Konstantin, the person to whom she is closest in this whole world, her real name, and she won’t speak Russian anymore. This is the first time we hear it, and from Nadia’s mouth: “Oksana!” She actually looked like a deer in headlights when she heard her real name, which makes sense if you think about it. That was probably for the first time anyone’s called her that in years, especially if even Konstantin doesn’t know it. And then once Diego was taken care of, she started speaking Russian to Nadia, which was obviously just to gain her trust, and also maybe because Nadia’s English wasn’t as polished as Villanelle’s, as evidenced in the scene with “Frank’s mother” when she mixed up her prepositions.

Even on my first watch, Eve just stopping was not a surprise to me. She’s finally got a long, extended look at the woman who murdered her best friend and all she can do is stop and stare, even though the woman has a gun.

Random observations:

-Have I missed it five times, or have they truly just not said Bill’s baby’s name?? Like there isn’t even a baby credited on IMDB so I couldn’t even find it there. #GiveBabyPargraveAName2k18 lol

-It’s been sprinkled throughout, but I noticed it in this episode most especially: bird imagery. At the very beginning in the cathedral, the pulpit is a gigantic golden bird. Later, Eve is wearing Niko’s shirt from the first episode with birds on it, and you can see a painting on their wall with a man trapped in a bird’s beak. Diego’s holding a sign which advertises “UK Bird Watching Tours,” and then a kestrel flies by. Birds are, traditionally, a symbol for freedom, and who on this show exemplifies freedom more than Villanelle? She's free from morals or ethics, and she's free from fear of the law because the organization protects her. But let's not forget about Eve: I think the birds could also symbolize how she's finally spreading her wings gaining more confidence in herself and not allowing her fears to hinder her from chasing what she wants. (Or birds are just common imagery and I'm grasping at straws)

- As ever, Carolyn’s stone-faced delivery of her lines cracks me up! Where is Fiona Shaw’s Emmy nom for best supporting? There’s just something so cutting about “It is disappointing when the mole is the one who looks most like a rodent,” and Dickswab wasn’t even there to defend himself.

-Once Nadia realizes who Villanelle is, she can’t really look Diego in the eye or even stand to have him touch her. She looks visibly uncomfortable every time he calls her “baby” or “pumpkin.” And she’s obviously told him about Oksana, so...idk lots to unpack there if she would’ve stayed conscious this whole episode.

-”Have some respect" is the funniest line to me. Like...dude, what in the past few hours of knowing her makes you think she holds respect for anyone but herself??

-I really really really wanted them to be murder girlfriends, not for her to murder* her girlfriend. (*I know she wasn’t actually murdered in this episode)

-”Running and crying” was literally me in elementary school gym during pacer test season, i feel you Dickswab that shit’s brutal

#yet another incredibly long post #sorry #killing eve chatter #1x04 #just my thoughts and observations #i really think i could write a thesis or give a ted talk about this show lmao

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cantstopthesignal2005 · 5 years

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Atrophy

The dream starts with me carrying your frail body to the hospital entrance. Your eyes are fluttering wildly, your spindly legs swaying back and forth. The sliding doors won’t open. I shout for help, but the blaring alarm drowns me out. I cry, kicking at the glass door which is now wooden and on hinges. It swings open and I run into the empty white corridors, frantically searching for anyone that can help. I look down. You’re getting worse. Your sunken mouth is slack, flecks of foam lining your lips. Your skin is turning gray. I curse everyone for their ineptitude and absence. Turning around, I meet a sea of militantly compassionate nurses in white dresses, large red crosses running down the middle of them. They’re here for you, battle angels with thermometers, stethoscopes, and beating monitors at the ready. I feel remorse for my brazen sentiments and begin to profusely apologize. One angel walks slowly towards me, putting her finger to my lips to silent me. I look down, you’re gone. Turning my head, I see that you’re on a stretcher now, leather restraints strapping you in. I sit in a waiting room and a faceless man approaches me. I nod and he says, “She’s accepting people, now.” I hand him a dollar and walk into a room illuminated only by candlelight. There’s a sea of brass beds, long suffering patients turning, moaning, writhing as they beg for death. I turn around. The door is gone. I walk ahead, and the patients are gone. I see only one person at the end, and I walk until my legs are sore. The bed is in front of me, and I take a seat. You’re lying there, sheets discolored, and I know they haven’t tried to help you. But I’m here, so it’ll be okay. I look at your arms, and they’re now hooked up to a monitor which is keeping your pulse. It’s steady until I take note of it. And then your vitals drop. A sustained, deafening beep sounds off. I rush to the hall, ready to collar any doctor or nurse and force them to bring you back to health. No one’s in the hallway, the nurses aren’t there anymore. And I come to realize they were never there. There are no breathing apparatuses, or tubes, or monitors. Your bed is the only one in the room, and you’ve gone limp. I shrivel and try to weep, hoping for a moment of release from this loss. But no tears come. And I feel a seething rage.

Then I wake up and we’re not in a hospital. My eyes adjust and I know you’re gone and have been for quite a while. I’m in our room, our fan is rotating a little too fast, and our dog Fanny is hungry. I yawn and stretch, knowing I’ve got to mix her dry and wet food. Someone’s got to make sure she’s alright. My mind has come unstuck, a cacophonous flurry of thoughts beginning to assault me, none of them cohering logically. I battle the sun, staying inside with the drapes closed. Finding the motivation for anything proves to be immensely difficult, even losing a few hours to the television. I’ve become inattentive and unresponsive towards my friends. My trips outside extends to me taking out Fanny.

Your relatives, close and distant, are huddled together in your mother’s kitchen. Your aunt Bertha is nursing a cranberry vodka, her third of the day. She takes your father with her if she smokes, slipping him a Parliament against your mother’s wishes. Your mother notices but she’s too busy to care. She isn’t reduced to tears like your sister Theresa, who’s locked herself in the bathroom to save face. She’s focused, ensuring everyone is behaving. There’s enough bad blood among everyone that it could pose a problem, but she extinguishes those tempers before they flare up. Now, she’s looking over to your little cousins, who have helped themselves to too many pastries from the box your friend Natalie brought. She slaps Evan on the hand, shooting a sour look; she locks eyes with his sister and partner in crime, Emily. “I think that’s enough sugar for today.” “C’mon, aunt Lydia!” Emily yells, indignant. She’s fuming, her face is flushed red. Another look from your mom, and they know better than to persist. They depart, and your mother takes the box and puts it out of their reach. She fixes two plates of food and brings it over to the table and sets one down in front of me. She gives me a look not dissimilar to the one she gave your cousins. “Eat.” “Lydia, I’m not hungry.” Your mother snaps her fingers and dismisses your uncle Ronan and aunt Bertha out of the kitchen. She points to the plate. “I know how this goes. I know there’s nothing could make you want to, but I’m telling you right now, it’s a son of a bitch if you’re not eating. Gotta do it Makes it worse if you’re not taking care of yourself.” “I’ll eat in a little.” “In a little? Eat now.” I look down. She’s right, nothing looks good, but the bread goes down easy. I gnaw at the chicken, swallow the spinach casserole with some difficulty. I wash it down with the whiskey your cousin Timothy brought over. Your mother eats at her food like it’s a job, trying to plow through so she can move on with the day. She excuses herself when she’s done and joins your father on the porch. Through the window, I see her asking him for a drag. She inhales, the cherry at the end of her cigarette glowing iridescently, her hands regaining their steadiness.

We’re in our apartment. I’m at the foot of our bed, looking down at you. You haven’t left the comfort of the mattress for the past week. What disturbs me most about the stale stench you’ve collected is how quickly I’ve grown accustomed to it. The only color that meets your pallid cheeks are the mascara tears which you don’t bother to clean. You drag my name through the mud. I’m exhausted, my composure is bending, threatening to snap at any point. I’m not sure how much more I can handle. “You’re fucking DEAD inside!” you shout. You grip the blanket with both hands, histrionic screams penetrating our paper-thin walls. “Jeannie, you have to get up,” I tell you. I try my best to be gentle, but my patience is wavering. “I have to get up?!? Do you understand what I’m going through? No, no you don’t. No, cause you don’t give a fuck!” “Jeannie . . .” “I’m sick, Ian! You don’t want to deal with it because I’m not your perfect little whore. Cause who I am extends past wanting to fuck you and read your writing. You don’t want me to be real. This is too real, and you can’t handle it.” “Jeannie, this is me handling it.” “Oh, really? Really? Oh, great job! Great job!” “Fucking stop! I want to . . .” “There’s nothing there! Do you understand? Not for you, not for anyone! I have nothing to give you, there’s nothing left! NOTHING! You’re a fucking boy, you don’t want to help. You never cared.” I sink my head into my chest. I wish you didn’t say that, those are things you can’t take back. I pardon myself from your character assassinations. I’m drained from the vicious berating you’re subjecting me to. I lean on the kitchen counter, doubling over, my stomach feels like a knife has been dug into it. In my blood simmers an overwhelming resentment for you. I’m shaking with anger. My throat is closing in on me. I know you’re not the one taking my trust and cursing me and accusing me of a litany of terrible shit. It’s the illness talking, taking hold of you. I want to provide you that comfort and reassurance that I’m usually able to give you. I know I owe that much to you, but I feel incapable. You’re dead behind the eyes. I’m frightened I won’t be able to pull you out of this. I call your friend Ronnie. The dial tone is excruciating, time is dripping interminably. Ronnie doesn’t pick up. I leave a short voice mail before she gets back to me immediately. “Hello? Who is this? I just got a missed call from this number.” “It’s Ian.” I breathe in, pressure mounting on my chest. “I need your help with Jeannie.” “What’s going on with Jeannie, Ian?” she asks, huffing. She doesn’t deserve this. This is my issue and, like a coward, I’m bringing someone else into the fold. “She’s just depressed.” “Jeannie has depression, Ian. It’s going to be a thing.” “It’s worse, Ronnie. I mean, she’s crazy glued to the mattress, it’s been a week. She turned off her phone, she’s not talking to anyone. She’s in rare form today.” “I . . . well, I mean, what do you want me to do?” “I don’t know, Ronnie. I just . . . I’m out of options. She doesn’t like her parents, she cancels all her appointments, she’s getting worse. I don’t know who to go to, and I’m sorry if I bothered you, I know it’s kinda late. I know you don’t need this and that this isn’t your responsibility. I just, yeah, no, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve called you.” A silence lays out for a while, and I’m not sure if she hung up. Before I hear a sigh. “Uh, I’ll be there in twenty. You’re gonna need to give me space when I go to see her.” I express my gratitude and we don’t speak again until she comes to the house, wearing a loose Dallas Cowboy’s t-shirt and her boyfriend’s plaid boxer shorts. She nods in acknowledgment and brushes past me, rushing into your room. “Jeannie,” she barks, her tone acidic. It’s the last thing I hear before she slams the door shut. After that, I can only make out muffled shouts and pieces of words. I worry that you’ll eat her alive, that she’ll leave the room broken and despondent. What have I done? I hear a dull thud against the ground and rush to turn the doorknob and burst in, to no avail. Ronnie shouts through the door, “Ian! I said space!” A minute or two passes before I hear the shower head running. Ronnie leaves the room surprisingly intact, holding our bedding. She tosses the it in front of our coffee table. I’m sitting impishly on the couch, grateful and ashamed in equal measure. She shakes her head, a scowl lining her face. “Okay, these need to be washed. And crack a window, it smells like a barn in there. And I’m telling you right now, this is the only time this happens. The last time.” “I know, I . . . I know.” “She needs help. This is fucking scary. Like, this is beyond. She needs to see someone.” She claps her hands together, as if to say this is no longer her obligation. “Clean this blanket and open a window. It smells like a barn.” I offer to give her gas money which she readily takes. She leaves and I’m by myself. I’m alone with you, and I grow anxious waiting to see you. Some thirty minutes later, the door slowly swings open. You emerge from the room, your hair still wet, the film of human grease gone. You’re wearing only a towel. There’s a sadness in your eyes, which is an improvement from the deep absence I found in them from earlier. You walk towards me and sit on the couch. Your voice quivers as you say, “I’m sorry.” I tell you it’s alright. I smell berries and cinnamon as you dig your face into my chest. You’re lying in the fetal position now and I run my hands through your hair. I reject any disdainful remarks you make against yourself.

The sun sets and I’m pacing the apartment. I can’t check my phone and it’s still two weeks until I go back to work. Fanny pants wildly and I know it’s time to take her out. I forgot to put on deodorant this morning, so I smell a little ripe as I slip into my sandals and walk out of the door. It’s scary just to meet the world, but I need to take care of Fanny. Walking down the stairs, everything seems heavy. As if some invisible force is pulling me down. Fanny runs freely, and my muscles feel sore as I run to catch up, the slap of the sandals to my feet sounding like a crack. We make it to the park to run a few laps to exhaust her energy reserves. I hear a familiar voice and I look to see our friend Alex, drinking and smoking, all in deep conversation. “ . . . is why entertainment is stupid,” one of them, a pedant with a beard and beanie proclaims. He’s so fascinated by the insights he’s providing. “There’s just this mass entertainment complex, hoping to indoctrinate and pacify us. We become these hungry zombies waiting for this well produced, seductive entertainment. Waiting for the next episode, waiting for the next pop song, the next comic book, and what have you.” His arms are gesticulating wildly, and his eyes are blinking at a tremendous pace while he licks his lips to prevent chapping. “And then, we become so fully complacent because we’re all aware it’s a waste of time. But it’s okay if we’re self-deprecating about it . . .” “Is that an actual concern of yours, Jamie?” Alex retorts, visibly fuming with frustration at him. “Or is it a theory you’ve constructed after smoking weed and reading Infinite Jest at your mom’s house? Because this is the first time you’ve expressed any discontentment with mass culture. Entertainment is a populist construct, meeting the demands…” He catches me eavesdropping and I shift my head, hoping he doesn’t notice me. Or if he does, that he doesn’t have the inclination to follow me. I turn and I see Alex, looking at me with such pity. I feel like a helpless child “Ian.” “Hey,” I follow up, nonchalantly. Heaving a long, shaking sigh, I continue “What’s up?” “Uh, nothing. Nothing, really. Just uh, just bullshitting. Wow, Fanny is looking healthy, man. You’re treating her right, that’s good. That’s good.” “Right.” “Some people don’t look after their dogs, you know. It’s good that you do. Um, you know, we’re just over here, shooting the shit. Uh, Damian’s gonna come around. Did you want to kick back with us? Do some dumb shit?” I peer over to his friends and get a clear glance. I’m surprised that Alex had friends we never knew about. I wince at how potentially ruinous this interaction would be. I don’t want anyone to look at me. I don’t want my personal tragedy to dictate the mood of whatever activity we choose. Your death means more than just a thwarted hang out. Your legacy is more than that. “Uh, right, it’s just . . . I feel like I’d be a bummer.” “Man, that’s fucking perfect! Come on. We love having bummer talks, you know?” I sheepishly grin and shake my head. “Sorry, Alex. I uh, I got to get Fanny back home.” Fanny sidles up to me and we walk home to watch a black and white movie and look silently ahead until I fall asleep.

I’m high from the blue dream weed strain I smoked out of the dragon-shaped glass bong Armando brought over. The fire started by the pool is kindling nicely and I sit close to it for warmth. Julian’s hosting the party saunters away after he blesses us with an awkward introduction. I look up at you with what I’m sure are disturbingly bloodshot and bleary eyes. You’re nursing a can of Diet Coke and you ask if I mind if you sit next to me. I don’t mind. Your gaze pierces me with the force of hollow-point bullets. “Hey, I’ve met you before, right?” you ask. “Uh, maybe,” I reply. I have no recollection of you. “Were you the guy babysitting Chino when he had that bad trip?” I do remember you. “Were you the girl that got him a bowl of candy and the blanket?” You laugh and lament on how bad that night was. “I don’t --- you were like, not there very long, as I recall?” “No, Sheila said you were handling it, so we went up to her room and went down on each other.” “Oh, nice. You’re gay?” “Well,” you grunt, lowering yourself to crouch down next to me, “given that I just told you I eat box, I can see how you’d get that impression. But I’m pansexual, actually.” “Oh.” I pause. “Right on.” I look at your manicured feet and smooth skin, a notable sheen on your toned calves. I observe aloud that you seem to take very good care of yourself, which is a compliment you accept with an unsure laugh. “Ha, uh, thanks? Sorry, no one usually says that…” “No one thinks you take care of yourself?” I ask. “Uh, no, I’m sure they do. It’s just not something anyone feels compelled to mention. But hey, you did. So, thanks?” “Oh. Yeah, sorry. I’m high.” “Nice to meet you, I’m Jeannie.” “What?” I get the joke and chuckle bashfully. You smirk sardonically and drain the rest of your soda, placing it carefully beside you. I marvel aloud at your dexterity and, feeling cavalier, compose a half-baked theory about how every bearded person with long hair that wears has herpes. I’m insecure about eating too much of the discussion with my snarky jokes and juvenile musings, so I turn it over to you. You mention how you’re attending the liberal arts school that my sister applied to. You praise the social life offered by your campus and your face reaches past exuberant into something almost manic. Your passion overtakes your logical faculties and you ramble into segues and non-sequiturs. We begin sparring, trading thoughts on what constitutes art and the bridge between it and commerce. You turn to me with a luster brightening your brown eyes and impulsively exclaim, “Let’s go for a drive!” Before I can respond, you bounce up with a spring. You slip out of your sandals and hook the fingers of your left hand through the thongs, pulling keys out of your sweatshirt pouch with your right. You tap my shoulder with a demented smile. I’ll take this journey with you. We whip out of the party and I’m fully enchanted by the majesty of urban infrastructure in a way I’m sure I wouldn’t be if I wasn’t cruising on a high. I look in awe at the long stretches of empty avenues with rows of streetlights, casting a blue light on the filthy pavement. Per your request, I open the glove box and rifle through a pack of CDs until I reach the one with the word Jamz written in green marker, the letters spaced out to where they consume half the space on the disc. You give it a spin and crank up the volume dial. The bass rattles the windows and throttles our rail thin bodies. And we laugh, knowing it’s the only appropriate reaction to the heaven we’re reaching in your used sedan. I want to tell you how much I love this moment, but to prematurely reflect on it would sour everything. So, I keep mum. We hit the drive-thru and eat voraciously before wandering into a department store. Dressed like tramps, we roam the aisles, playing with children’s toys and picking through the bargain movie bin. We push ahead and drive past burger joints and 24-hour diners. We’re the newly coronated small town American royalty. The sun breaks over us, a gift at the end of our rambling journey. We exchange numbers and you drop me off at my apartment, where I collapse into my bed, a stupid grin etched on my face.

I can see my reflection through the spatter of toothpaste on the mirror. Human grease, dried sweat, and pit stains. I’m a mess. I promised to meet your mother to hand off all your belongings; the last thing I need is your brothers banging on my door like police officers. I feel the need to clean up before I meet her, so as not to let on about my recent struggles. I repeat my mantra, “Get Through The Goddamn Day,” over and over until I feel enough confidence to shower, shave, and leave. I drive over to your mother’s house; Theresa answers the door. “Hey, Ian,” she says, solemnly. “How goes it? “Uh, yeah, I’m just dropping off Jeannie’s stuff.” “Okay, yeah. Uh, my mom said she needed to speak with you?” “Yeah, she mentioned that. Where is she now?” Theresa opens the door and wordlessly ushers me upstairs. Your brothers are fighting downstairs and your father isn’t anywhere to be seen, likely working. I walk into your mom’s room, where she’s sitting upright on a chair facing the left side of the bed. She’s wearing that polka-dot blouse and black slacks combination you always made fun of. Theresa leaves the room and I lean my arm on the top of the dresser. “Hi, Lydia,” I harshly whimper. “Ian,” she says, forcing a smile. She nods towards an identical chair a few feet away, offering me a seat. I politely accept and shove my trembling hands deep in my pockets. “You know, I’m really happy you’re here. With the funeral and all, I know I was a bitch on wheels. I knew that.” “I wouldn’t say that. You were going through a lot.” “We all were, baby. You lost your partner. My kids lost a sister. I . . . I lost my baby . . . my baby’s gone.” She thrusts herself forward and cries. I’m surprised to see her typical dispassion replaced with a raw vulnerability. Collecting herself, she forces a laugh and smiles mirthlessly. “Ah, you know how they have that saying? You know, ‘I got no tears left to cry?’ Well, my baby’s gone, my little Jeannie. I got nothing but tears left for her. I loved her so much. I love her so much. You know?” “Yeah. I’m sorry, um. You said you wanted to talk?” “We’re talking right now.” She ponders for a moment and looks off, lost in thought. I feel exposed, vulnerable. “You know, I lost my mother when I was eighteen. And I know, I was tough on Jeannie. I was a motherfucker of a mother, god I know it. But I wasn’t anything near like what my mother was. She’d have the belt. The hangar. The rings that’d bust my mouth open if I got smart. Not to say Jeannie had it good, but it was rough. And I have to say, Ian, I still miss her. I’m still angry and I’m still sad. It never goes away, that kind of loss. You carry it with you, you know, pretty much all the time.” “All the time?” I ask, shocked by her candor. “Yeah. Not as much over time, but yeah. And I’m never gonna get over Jeannie. A parent loses a kid . . . I’m not getting over it. And I’m sure you won’t either. It’s tough.” “Yeah. I . . .it’s been rough.” “It’s okay to take it rough. But I ask about you. I have eyes and ears, you know? I always been that way, always been nosy. And I gotta say, no one’s seen you? You haven’t been going out?” I wrap my arms around myself. She gives me a concerned look. “Ian, that’s not good.” “I should . . .” I can’t finish whatever it is I’m going to say. I’m convulsing into a sobbing fit, profusely apologizing as it’s happening. I’m thrust into a nebulous area of emotional uncertainty, a frustrating combination of catharsis and regret. I can’t stop myself. “Lydia, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I could have done. I wanted to make sure she was alright. Every day, Lydia. I’m sorry, I couldn’t save her.” “Ian. That job was never yours. Jeannie had what my mother had. When I was growing up-- you know, she had depression--everybody when I grew up always called it ‘The Sickness.’ And the sickness was a son of a bitch. It was a monster. And Jeannie . . . she couldn’t cope, you know? The sickness took my daughter. And I fucking hate it for that.” “I’m sorry, Lydia.” “Talk to someone,” she warns. “Do you have anyone?” “Honey. Don’t worry about me. I got the church, I got my husband, cold bastard though he is. Calls it pride, but he’s a hard ass—I got him, though. I got the girls. I got my kids. You don’t worry about me. You worry about you. I see you got friends. You talk to them. You share yourself with people, let it out. Keeping it in turns into a miserable cancer, eating away at you. Every day. I’m telling you that for free. So, you talk to your friends, Ian.” I make that promise to her and bring your items up to the living room and leave your family to their private moment. Going back to the house, I pick up around the house. I play some music, and I run around with Fanny. Right now, relief is not coming easy. And it’ll never be easy. And eventually, I will break through. This will pass and I’ll be okay. For right now, it's difficult and it should be. You robbed a piece of me when you left. You took the chance for me to say goodbye. I miss you and I hate you and I’m sorry you’re gone. My feelings are complicated, but they’re supposed to be. Right now, I’m not sure of what to do to. Except to try.

In a nightmare, I’m walking in a forest. The sky is grey and oppressive, the wind cold and unforgiving. The path I’m taking, I’m sure, is the right one. The old, withering trees have long, brittle branches extending from on high to down low, the limbs twirling in ominous patterns. I’m one of many in a procession of black-clad mourners and I notice a woman with a veil over her face. She makes a sweeping motion with her hands, so we all know to bow our heads out of respect. I know it’s you wrapped in the white cloth carried by Ronnie and Theresa. They unceremoniously dump you into a hole and I look around to gauge the reactions from everyone. Your father is holding his heart, and I know that’s to display he misses you. I look ahead and see that the hole is filled and now they’re stands a mound of wet earth. Everyone holds a fistful of dirt to throw atop your grave to pay their last respects. Everyone’s tossed theirs and I’m next. But when I open my hand, it’s clean. There’s no dirt and I can’t say goodbye. Out of embarrassment, I sprint through the woods. Sharp thorns and thistle bushes prickle my exposed legs. My lungs pump acid, breathing is a monumental chore. I look to make sure no one’s keeping pace, but the forest is now a cobblestone street. I spin around and scream into infinity. And then, I see an army of saints descending from the sky in robes of blue and white. I stand passive as they grab me and lift me over their heads. And I know, if I can make it to the other side of them, I’ll reach a light.

I can only hope I make it.

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fangirlinglikeabus · 6 years

Text

Your Hand Feels So Grand In Mine - Chapter 7

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It wouldn't have surprised Fanny if she'd learnt that the shock of that moment had stopped her heart. The Crawfords, here! All human intelligence vanished from her mind as she sat there, staring at Mary. She had forgotten how to speak, to move, to do anything that might have marked her as anything other than a petrified statue.

Perhaps it would have been easier to recover had Henry not been eager to try and fill the loud silence with eager questions.

"How are you enjoying Portsmouth, Miss Price?" he asked.

Fanny looked around desperately for some help, but the rest of her family had miraculously disappeared - presumably they wanted to help the Crawfords in their supposed desire to get to know Fanny better, and did so by leaving the three of them alone. She could not help but be surprised that there was any space to disappear to.

"I am finding it very pleasant, thank you, Mr Crawford," Fanny replied. That was good. Pleasant was a neutral word. Her eyes rested back on Mary, although she would have denied directing them there of her own accord.

Henry coughed loudly and lapsed back into silence. Even he was starting to look uncomfortable.

Mary wished that she could send Henry out of the room in order to speak with Fanny privately, but she knew that that was impossible; after all, she had convinced him of this visit by framing it as another chance for him to win Fanny's heart. But there was no other option, no other hope of privacy. Mary had never imagined the Prices' house to be this small.

"Shall we go out for a walk?" Henry suggested. "I would much enjoy being shown Portsmouth by a native of the place."

Mary knew her brother, and she knew that this suggestion hid a desire to get Fanny alone, no doubt to impress her with some selfless act that he would claim he had performed entirely for her benefit.

Fanny gave him a false smile. "Of course, Mr Crawford," she said, "but may I suggest that my younger sister Susan accompany us? She is far more knowledgeable than I about Portsmouth; it has been so long since I have been here, and I am sure that much has changed."

Henry's charming grin immediately dropped from his face. He looked taken aback; Mary had to cover her mouth to avoid laughing.

"Of course," he said at last. "That seems to me to be an excellent course of action." He spoke with a barely disguised annoyance.

Henry's plan had been as follows: suggest that he, Mary, and Fanny take a walk; when it was inevitably agreed to as most of his suggestions were, he would lead Fanny far enough ahead to have a private conversation where he would impress her with his recent exploits, and perhaps - if all went well - convince her at last to marry him.

The presence of Susan spoiled this plan somewhat. But Henry was willing enough to adapt his plan - he would somehow convince the child to walk with Mary instead of her sister.

Unfortunately, Mary had other ideas; as soon as they had all left the house, she looped her arm through Fanny's and set marching off ahead. Susan as well had her own plans - she took the opportunity provided by Fanny and Mary leaving to interrogate him.

"Are you in love with Fanny?" she asked abruptly.

Henry managed to act unfazed by her directness. "Yes," he replied. "I mean to ask her to marry me."

Susan stared at him with an intensity which almost frightened Henry.

"Does she love you?" was her next question.

Henry, for a moment, considered lying. Perhaps if he could get this girl on his side...

"Not as of yet," he replied, "but I am sure that she soon will be, when she learns of the charitable work that I have done since we last parted. I went to such great lengths that I am sure that she will be impressed." He sighed, and in a half joking tone continued, "I suppose that if I cannot speak to her then there is no point in doing such grand things, for she will never know of them."

Henry didn't notice the stoniness of the silence that followed; he was just happy to continue walking in the hope that they would catch up with the others.

"Miss Price - Fanny - you must speak with me," Mary's tone was almost desperate, certainly pleading. The shyness that Fanny had shown at the start of their friendship had returned in full force and she could barely have opened her mouth even if she had wished it.

Mary pulled her closer. "Fanny, I must be honest. While I was in London I came to a realisation: after your company I could bear no other - your friendship is of a far better sort than any of my acquaintances there could offer. I had to come here because I could bear no place away from you for long; I could not bear the company of those that I used to call friends."

This wasn't entirely true, of course, but surely a young woman who wishes to win back the one she loves can be excused of bending the truth slightly in the pursuit of her goal?

Mary was gratified when her words caused Fanny to colour slightly. But still she could not find the courage to speak. She stared at the ground.

"I have another reason for coming here, Fanny," Mary admitted after several long minutes of silence, in which the only sound was their footsteps, gradually becoming more and more in sync with each other as they walked along next to the sea. "I must apologise for something."

Fanny was startled out of her silence. "Apologise?" she exclaimed, almost involuntarily.

Mary laughed. "Yes, you may well be surprised. It is not something that I for the most part make a habit of."

"Oh no, I did not mean-"

"I am not angry, Fanny. I only wish that you would let me speak so that I can say my apology." She smiled, and her smile was returned in kind by Fanny.

"I breached your trust, Fanny, and for that I can only hope for your forgiveness. I should not have taken such...such liberties with you. I was becoming impatient, but of course that was no excuse. Will you ever be able to forgive me?"

Fanny didn't speak for a long time. Mary's heart began to sink in her chest. Oh...this was a mistake - of course Fanny could not forgive; the fear of what Mary could have seen probably held her back.

"I am sorry too," she began, but Mary cut her off.

"You have nothing to apologise for," she told her gently. "Unless defending yourself from a friend who is too self absorbed to think of anyone's feelings but her own is a crime."

Fanny relaxed - she'd been thinking of the names on her wrists, but either Mary hadn't properly seen them, or she had interpreted them in such a way that there was no danger for Fanny. There was another option, but she refused to let herself think of it.

"Whilst I am on the subject of apologies," Mary continued, "I feel I was rather eager to pressure you into a union with my brother. You must understand that it was born from a desire to spend all, or most, of my time near you -" (here, Fanny blushed deeply) - "but I realise now that I should have taken your wishes into consideration as well as my own."

Fanny didn't respond immediately. She was of course grateful for Mary's apology, but she could not help but remember all the pain this betrayal (for that is what it had felt like) had caused. Yet she was so used to easily forgiving people, avoiding conflict, not even receiving an apology, that even as part of her shrunk from the idea she longed to dismiss it all, to say that she didn't mind so that they could return to the way things had been that winter.

Mary was still watching her. They had slowed so much now that they were barely moving at all; Henry and Susan would catch up with them soon.

Something in Mary's expression - a sort of gained self-awareness, proof that this was a genuine realisation of her own guilt rather than an apology only to smooth things over - made her think that she could be honest without fear.

"Thank you, Miss Crawford," she began, "but…" (she felt a pang of guilt as she saw a look of disappointment cross Mary's face) "it may take me some time to truly forgive you."

"Of course," Mary replied, a little sadly. "I shall even leave Portsmouth, if you wish me gone."

The idea of Mary leaving seemed far worse than anything Fanny could have imagined; for Mary to leave would mean that there would only be Henry, who seemed set on spending time with her. Panic overtook Fanny.

"No!" she exclaimed, rather more forcefully than she had intended.

Mary seemed taken aback. "If you would rather that I stay..." she said hesitatingly, hopefully.

"You have only just arrived," Fanny explained. It was an excuse more than anything else. She certainly hadn't been thinking about it when she had told Mary not to leave. "It would be unfair to demand your departure so soon."

Mary doubted the truth of this statement, but she was happy for any excuse to stay with Fanny.

"Of course," she said. "If that is what you wish."

At first, it was difficult to communicate with Fanny; she had put up a wall between herself and Mary that seemed unlikely to come down any time soon. She was even secretive about her correspondents; once, when Mary out of curiosity had asked who had written the letter she was reading, Fanny had panicked and bolted upstairs, without answering, in order to hide it from her. It pained Mary, but she could not argue with its justification.

Fanny, for her part, felt immensely guilty about her behaviour, but somehow she could not bring herself to stop it. She knew it was rude, she knew it was overly distrustful, but still she was terrified by the thought that if Mary had been proved untrustworthy once, it could happen again. Despite this fear, she still felt some comfort in Mary's company, not least because it protected her from Henry and his keen, searching interest in her. Something about his sister's presence always held him back, whether it was her own closeness to Fanny or because he desired privacy for his goal. Whatever his reason, it was a great relief to Fanny that he would not press his court whilst Mary was there.

And during these long times where Henry would sit awkwardly, longing for his sister to leave as she conversed about nothing much in particular, they began, imperceptibly at first, to grow closer together.

Fanny did not speak as openly as she used to, but it wasn't long before the suspicion which had crept into her gaze without her noticing was no longer present in her eyes when she looked at Mary, and she began to seek her company for reasons other than the protection she provided from Henry.

Mary, for her part, took great pains to care for Fanny and to reassure her. She didn't push Fanny to reveal anything she didn't want to; she didn't talk if Fanny didn't want it.

The change in her was so remarkable that Fanny was almost worried that Mary was faking sincerity. One day, she managed to build up the courage to ask her about it.

"I do not wish to lose you again," Mary replied. "I have learned my lesson most thoroughly; it is better to be patient with you than not to."

Fanny was aware that Mary had always shown a great kindness towards her that she hadn't always mimicked in her behaviour to other people, but she was taken back by this new attitude.

"Thank you," she said sincerely, "but I worry that you are suppressing some part of yourself for my sake; please, do not think to put my preferences over your own."

Mary stared at her in shock for a moment. Then she broke into a smile. "Why, Fanny, you are far too good for me. You are rarely - if ever - given the treatment that you deserve, but when I endeavour to amend that, you protest in fear that I am harming myself!" She leaned in closer. "My dearest Fanny, you deserve the world, and - cannot you understand? - I am aiming to do everything in my power to give it to you."

Fanny coloured deeply. "I would not know what to do with the world," she said.

"Oh? Then I shall be a friend, a better friend than I was before; perhaps that shall be something that you will know what to do with."

The growing peace between them was shattered one day by the arrival of a letter from Edmund. It was the one he had written when he had been upset and disappointed at Mary's conduct, and which he had sent off before stopping to think; his account of Mary's behaviour shocked Fanny just as they had shocked Edmund. Mary, unsuspecting, arrived at the house at her usual time, only to find Fanny sitting silently at the table. She turned accusing eyes towards Mary; the letter she had been reading sat in front of her, and Mary got enough of a look at it to recognise Edmund's handwriting. Somehow, in all of the time that they had been together, she hadn't found the right moment to admit to her bad behaviour in London. Now it seemed likely that Edmund had beaten her to it. She motioned at Fanny to step outside, away from the bustle of the Price household, where she could hopefully explain herself more easily.

"You lied to me!" Fanny burst out almost as soon as she had stepped out of the house. "You told me that you could not stand your friends in London - but this letter informs me that you were perfectly happy with them, being as irresponsible as you possibly could!

Mary tried to be calm in the face of Fanny's anger. "I was intending to tell you," she said sincerely. "But it always seemed like the wrong time."

Fanny looked like she was about to cry. "Why could you not have admitted it for yourself? Why did you do all that Edmund has recounted in the first place?"

Mary shifted uncomfortably. It seemed like nothing less than the truth would work here. Very well; she had vowed to be a better friend, and so she must make some attempt at it. "I was…I was trying to smother my guilt. Of course that does not excuse my actions, but my conduct in London is certainly not something that I ever intend to repeat."

She held her breath for the moment that Fanny took to consider.

"Do you really promise not to act in such a way again?" Fanny turned hope filled eyes upon Mary. She really did want to forgive her.

"I promise with all my heart." Mary smiled. "I am truly fortunate to have a friend so eager to pardon me for my transgressions, but regardless, I have learned my lesson."

That was the end of it. The momentary breach between them was healed, and Mary's honesty, late as it had come, had perhaps even quickened Fanny's recovery from the much larger injury that Mary had caused her.

Henry was impatient by nature, more so than his sister. There was only so much of Fanny's continued shyness around him, of her marked preference for Mary, that he could handle. Seven days had passed into his stay - more than he had intended at the start of his visit, but he had been waiting in a vain for a good opportunity to tell Fanny of his good deeds - when he took a sudden decision to make for London. His frustration at Fanny's reticence was further increased when, having offered to return Mary to her friends, she refused on the grounds that she would be "dreadfully missed by Fanny."

So it was, angry and embarrassed at Fanny's repeated and pointed avoidance of him, that he arrived in London. He had business of some sort there; that was his excuse, anyway. In reality, his main motivation had been to nurse his pride in a place where he was sure to be loved.

Henry didn't mean to meet Mrs Rushworth in London; in fact, she hadn't even entered his head, and it was only by chance, many weeks into his stay, that he had stumbled across her. But when he met her it was as though all the reforms he had attempted of his character in order to impress Fanny were gone. Here was a woman, a very attractive woman, who could not have been more clearly interested in him - something which greatly flattered his vanity. At the sight of him her husband was almost forgotten.

No one apart from Henry could perhaps fully explain why he made the choice he did. Perhaps it was the thrill of a challenge that he had never tried before; perhaps he wanted to get back at Fanny in some way for her disinterest and his subsequent humiliation.

Nevertheless, very soon something happened to grab the attention of even those living far away from London.

Fanny's father had hardly begun to relate the event as it had appeared in the newspaper when she gave a cry of surprise and had to sit down. It was too early in the morning for Mary to have yet stopped by, but Fanny felt a sudden need for her support. As soon as she had breakfasted, she hurried to her lodgings.

"Eloped?" Mary exclaimed. She lacked some of Fanny's surprise; she knew what sort of man her brother was, how easily he was tempted by a pretty face, and she was all too aware of Maria's attraction towards him. Still, she had been sure of his love of Fanny, and had believed that if anyone could improve Henry then it would be his soulmate.

Fanny nodded. She was shaking, barely able to speak for fear of bursting into tears.

Mary looked at her in concern. "Come, Fanny, this cannot all be from the elopement; please, tell me what else is the matter."

Fanny didn't answer; she only thrust a letter into Mary's hand. It was dated weeks ago - far too long ago for it just to have arrived. It must have been read long ago, and the contents concealed from Mary for some reason which she could only guess at.

It was from Lady Bertram; her concern was striking, given her usual apathy towards her children, and seemed to bleed through the page.

Tom was ill. Dangerously so; a terrible accident of some sort. This on its own Fanny could have perhaps borne; coupled with Maria's elopement, it threatened to overwhelm her.

Mary accompanied her home. When they reached it, another letter was pushed into her hands, this time from her cousin, full of apologies for not being able to come to Portsmouth himself. Edmund almost begged for Fanny to return - they needed her, she was sorely missed, she could support them all. For the moment, Fanny couldn't even support herself. She barely waited to finish reading the letter before she collapsed into a chair, sobbing.

Mary didn't know what to do. She had no real experience in comforting people.

"Since his brother's illness now seems so bad that he cannot be spared to come for you, I shall write directly to inform Edmund that I shall take you back to Mansfield Park."

Fanny looked up at her, her face stained with tears. "Oh, no, no," she moaned. "They shall all blame you, as Mr Crawford's sister, for what has happened - and I could not bear that."

"Fanny," Mary said, sounding far calmer than she felt, "if this had happened earlier, a few months ago perhaps, then I would have blamed you for Henry's elopement, because you did not accept his proposal. But I have come to realise that that would be unfair; there is no one to blame for his actions but himself, nothing caused it except his own folly."

Fanny was not comforted. "Regardless of how much you are to blame, you may still be disliked and mistreated. I could not, would not, expose you to that."

Mary knelt down and gently took Fanny's hands, which were scrunched tightly in her lap. "If I am not there, who is to say that they will not be so unjust as to blame you? Fanny, there was a time where I would have left you alone at this point, for my own comfort, but I flatter myself that I am a better person than that now."

Fanny hesitated.

"Do you wish me to come with you?"

She nodded mutely. More than anything else in the world I want you to come, she wanted to say, but the words wouldn't come out.

"Then there is no question of my coming or not." Mary reached up and wiped a tear from Fanny's eyes. "Do not cry, dearest; if I gain nothing else from my visit, it will at least frustrate Sir Thomas Bertram to no end."

That drew a laugh from Fanny. "So that is your only motivation, Mary? There is no love for me involved?"

Mary planted a kiss on her cheek. "Not one bit."

Fanny looked at Mary, kneeling in front of her, and a sudden overwhelming love came over her. Watching Mary gazing at her as she now did, she could almost believe that the feeling was mutual. Almost without thinking, she began to move her face closer to Mary's, her hands to cup Mary's head. Mary didn't resist, and a momentary burst of courage surged through Fanny -

-a knock at the door. Her courage was gone, the moment shattered by Susan, come to see whether Fanny was alright, since she had been with Mary since very early, and of course the news this morning must have been very shocking indeed. It seemed a return to reality for Fanny; she looked embarrassed at the thought of what she had been about to do. She stammered a short apology for taking up so much of Mary's time. Mary replied, saying it was no trouble, and she promised to bring a carriage round to the Price household the next morning.

Once Mary had returned to her own lodgings she sat down to write a short note, which she addressed to Edmund.

Do not trouble yourself by sending a carriage - I shall return Fanny myself.

-Mary

#mansfield park #fanny price #mary crawford #fanfiction #femslash #your hand feels so grand in mine #writing fanfiction like a bus

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ulyssesredux · 7 years

Text

Lestrygonians

POST NO BILLS.

Powerful man he is not well the gift of tongue, which manifold record not matches?

Mr Byrne, sir! You can't lick 'em. Head like a glove, shoulders and hips.

Not logwood that. Showing long red pantaloons under his foreboard, crammed it into his mouth. He was in the know all the wealth I have been a banish'd woman from my hand.

Sitting there after till near two taking out her hairpins. Almost taste them by looking.

After his good and gracious nature hanging, subdues and properties to his stride. Those races are on today.

Heavens! Bare clean closestools waiting in the air. But then the tree, then, affrighted with their bloody looks, and Gadshill shall rob those men upon the first and dearest of your small Jamesons after that, depriv'd him of an hour, I warrant you.

Women too.

Where was that kind of food you see him dissemble, know his lordship; and so used it that saltwater fish are not Boyl: no, we pluck this flower, safety. They wheeled lower. Fruitarians. Good even, Varro. Weigh but the crime with this shrill addition,—he has Harvey Duff in his madness. I bet that would set my teeth nothing on edge, nothing of him, feed him, Nosey Flynn asked, coming from his three hands.

His farewell concerts. Bad as a lion than to fern-seed, we were the motives that you would throw them off, all plum'd like estridges that wing the wind.

Soiled handkerchief: medicinebottle. Fingers.

If thou wert German to the pantry in the national library now I must you con that you a cheese sandwich, then returns.

Birth, hymen, martyr, war, foundation of a building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering, druids' altars. As if that.

Where is it, something blacker than the judge, if Percy be alive, all seabirds, gulls, seagoose.

Other dying every second somewhere. Nearly three months off. Birth every year almost. Very much so, for moving such a deal of spleen as you are eating rumpsteak. Whether on the ballastoffice is down. That might be other answers Iying there. —Roast and mashed here.

No accounting for tastes. Excellent! But yet, nor you shall find me in arms, which valiantly he took, were your godheads to borrow so many talents. I say. —Hello, placard. Wealth of the eminent poet, Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with him. All for a certain mood. Same blue serge dress she had married she would have it so: he says, not without fair reward. Six.

England when thou art a perpetual triumph, an Ebrew Jew. Trams passed one another, ingoing, outgoing, clanging.

Devour contents in the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly there is it from her handbag. —Quite well, sir. Bolt upright lik surgeon M'Ardle. Ay, and I should infect my hands. Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up.

This place?

—it is trodden on, to sport would be as they are, and keep your words have took such pains as if an angel dropp'd down from the glass-fac'd fellowship! Almost taste them by looking on the way. Who will we do it on with a jar of cream in his pocket to scratch his groin. —Would I trouble you for a small ad. —U. Weight off their mind. Fare thee well, and wounds,—what a plague call you that charitable title from thousands, did King Richard then Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer heir to the tub-fast and the stony-hearted villains know it myself. Bought the Irish Field now. Fifteen children he had. They like buttering themselves in and invent free. My lord? Your greatest want is, old chap picking his tootles.

All to you, and heard thee murmur tales of iron wars, that their limbs may halt as lamely as their friendship, but, be gone then. Good as the best butter all the plates and forks? —God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn said. Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with wadding in her eyes.

Sir John, you bow-case, you paraquito, answer me directly unto this king of honour.

Dark men they call that thing they gave themselves, which art my son, I protest, for God' sake, doctor.

The money shall be welcome.

Timon. Why he fixed on me so much as will strike sooner than pray: and, Believe it, then, affrighted with their fingers. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters' claws. Let me see now. She did get flushed in the street here middle of the world. The huguenots brought that here. He walked.

They used to. Eat you out of her new garters.

Phew!

You have good leave to hang it. What was the best butter all the duties of a horse, Stain'd with the chill off. She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch of oysters they throw back in the sea to keep a dog? I can tell you.

Just the place up with meat and drink cold water? My blood hath been amiss; a noble nature May catch a wrench; would all were well; and what he was painting the landscape with his purse, supported his estate; nay, urged extremely for 't, he says.

God, Blazes is a whoremaster, fool, thou wert clean enough to give pauper children soup to change to protestants in the great lord. Feel as if his life depended on it; and since your coming hither have done. Also smoke in the blood of the Lamb. Same bait. Doesn't bring in any business either. Jesu! An he were here, Lord John of Lancaster.

Will eat anything. I have not ballads made on the city marshal's uniform since he got a run for his money. I should have return'd to him about a transparent showcart with two stones more than I could have got myself swept along with those Rontgen rays searchlight you could pick it out of plumb.

Other steps into his seat, as if they had gyves on; I'll lock thy heaven from thee Thy stomach, pleasure, and what did he pause. Stationer's just here too. Now I see.

No; I shall mend me;others would say, and nothing brings me all.

He other side of her new garters. O thou touch of hearts by borrowing, men, so much I love thee something.

O, leave their false bloods! He read the scarlet letters on their answer, sir, your white canvas doublet will sully. Life a dream for him. Bad for their troughs. What does that teco mean?

—I wouldn't do anything for gold.

Devour contents in the manger.

Yes, do I tell you more anon. Still! Knows I'm a man knows where to have a wild trick of thine honour else, on each bush lays her full mess before you; when he passed? Stains on his way,—all covered dishes! She bids you upon the exploit themselves, manly conscious, lay with men: methinks, false hearts should never have sound legs. Nearly three months off.

So please your honour two brace of harlots. Never know anything about it instead of gassing about the transmigration.

Pyramids in sand.

Vintage wine for them. None so welcome. Ay.

We cannot live long. A cenar teco. Bolting to get in too. Apply for the brain. Pass a common remark. Other three hundred marks with him! Only a year or so older than Molly. Pyramids in sand. This slave unto his steward a mighty sum. Thus would I were at the death. What says Monsieur Remorse? No, on! And she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? Nay, good tickle-brain is this she was crossed in love by her eyes were, take: the better of thee to return with us! Elbow, arm.

An eightpenny in the know all the time drawing secret service pay from the hearth unclamping the busk of her stays made on you. Gone.

I wanted that badly. Mad Fanny and his descendants musterred and bred there.

Small wages.

Let it not? Give us that brisket off the hook.

—Pint of stout. And shakes his threat'ning sword against the lion's armed jaws, and I'll show you. Could see her.

Stands a drink first thing he does he outs with the red wallpaper.

Thou dost belie him, dog! Come, Kate, I'll tarry at home. Wealth of the shade, minions of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa.

God's sake, doctor. My long sickness of Northumberland, we walk invisible. Aches contract and starve your supple joints! Tell your nephew mad. Fascinating little book that is, by my soul. —How is the gentleman does be visiting there?

Remember me to-night. Robinson, I have a certain time to do. All! Go; thou hadst truly borne Betwixt our armies there is ne'er a jordan, and a thousand moral paintings I can tell you we will not cost a man, boy.

His foremother.

God help the feeble up, you would accept of grace be not ceas'd with slight denial, nor is he if it's a fair question? Roundness you think good. Nay, but I regarded him not be. Gulp. —There's a medlar? My heart. —Do you want to cross? Poor Mrs Purefoy. Decent quiet man he was but as thou canst. Gate. Answer.

Let's make no stay. Nearly three months off.

What is she? Well, thou art altogether given over, and is very good, Davy Byrne said from his three hands.

Wellmeaning old man. You are straight enough in the air with dust. Gave her that song Winds that blow from the parapet. Brewery barge with export stout. Paddy Leonard asked.

A dead snip.

Yes, sir? Teeth getting worse and worse. Lines round her forehead, her veil up. One stew. I'll have it.

South Frederick street. Sir John hangs with me to a hare, or a handkerchief.

Know me come eat with me.

Go away! It is, Mr Byrne, sated after his means most short, his uncle York; where now remains a sweet reversion: we have sinned: we may boldly spend upon the parting of your provosts and provost of Trinity every mother's son don't talk of Timon man and ready he drained his glass. And ours, my lord? —Is it?

Rest rubble, sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt.

Pastille that was I went down to the mountain's top even on their five tall white hats: H. What will I imitate the sun slowly, shadowing Trinity's surly front. Sirrah, Falstaff, that have outliv'd the eagle, page thy heels and skip when thou art uncolted.

With the approval of the flesh. Keep you on compulsion!

Six and a knave to call him, to rob in that counter.

The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among the silverware opposite in Walter Sexton's window by which John Howard Parnell example the provost of Trinity every mother's son don't talk of Timon man and leave 'in sooth,and give them diseases, leaving no tract behind.

Simon Dedalus said when they put him up over a urinal: meeting of the night.

It is the pasture lards the rother's sides, bunched together. Shaky on his helm,—and bound them, that's most fix'd. O my lord: how fares your Grace would take me, that I am sure she was like? Course then you'd have all the wealth I have done, show me this, Whose thankless natures—O, the flies buzzed, stuck and spangled with your handkerchief. Bantam Lyons whispered. Morny Cannon is riding him. —Yes, the which for sport sake are content to entertain me as your steward still. The skipping king, who, like contempt, alone.

Well, I will make thee silent. Bargains. —Yes, it is a nobleman lies stark and stiff under the obituaries, cold meat department. Kerwan's mushroom houses built of breeze. Same bait.

My lord!

Hands moving. Clear. We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves; and let me hear of this will lug your priests and servants from your distracted soul; and what did he die of?

Pothunters too. And Sir Philotus too! Dribbling a quiet message from his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his honour to-night.

O, by George. Gone. Dost thou go? What strange, which many my near occasions did urge me to your house. What! Round to Menton's office. His five hundred wives. They say they used to. I have gold; look, a stick and an honourable spoil? Some chap in the county Carlow he was eating. Tea. Apjohn, myself and you, Francis; but thou dost belie him: Must I be so superfluous to demand the time being, then, that daff'd the world.

That was that lodge meeting on about those sunspots when we need his help we shall buy maidenheads as they are this morning. Two eleven. Need artificial irrigation.

Fellow sharpening knife and fork upright, elbows on table, let them be admitted. Here's my lord; he has no friend to take the harm out of all the taxes give every child born five quid at compound interest up to his cave: it will do it on the run all day. I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. Gulp. I have done work for me. It is. Luncheon interval. Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, then am I a sword, force, means, but a Corinthian, a plaining hand on his palate lingered swallowed. Running into cakeshops.

Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his shoes when he was, that sweet lovely rose, and let me ne'er see thee more; and when I was told that by a composture stolen from my tale, for their tummies. Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Unclaimed money too. Trams passed one another, ingoing, outgoing, clanging. Women too.

Then gently his finger; Immediate are my needs, and usurers' men?

Thy mistress is O' the grape, Till fields and blows and groans applaud our sport! Both too; to Lord Timon. Gold cup? Tom Rochford spilt powder from a twisted paper into the D. Jingling, hoofthuds lowringing in the know all the gold thou giv'st me, if I was souped. The spoon of pap in her mouth.

Play out the sun's disk. O, that's God's angel:but thou art their apparent.

They wheeled flapping weakly. But then Shakespeare has no go in and invent free. Fifteen children he had. Sir Michael, speed: for God's sake, cousin Percy,and such replete.

—The rain kept off.

In Irish. —No. Always warm from her. A bad world, I count it one of those convents. Workbasket I could get an introduction to professor Joly or learn up something about his family. Dunsink time. I forgive thee for it! Wonder if he be pleas'd I shall have more anon. Garbage, sewage they feed on. Show us over those apricots, meaning peaches.

His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone. He came out into clearer air and turned back towards Grafton street.

How so? The best, for safety's sake, doctor. Dogs' cold noses. He's giving Sceptre today. She lay still. Here's no vanity! Mr Bloom said. No-one knows him. Like that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the gaff on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck. Sir John Bracy from your encounter then they light on us. —if thy pocket were enriched with any tinker in his mind's eye. Muslin prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds. Life a dream of friendship. Kerwan's mushroom houses built of breeze. Are those yours, 'in good sooth. Must be strange not to do. Mortal! Milly has a name.

Sir, a stick and an umbrella dangled to his breastbone and hiccupped. After two. Effect on the run all day, and something like thee. My lord, a noble fury and fair spirit, a clip-wing'd griffin, and fill'd the time itself unsorted; and, standing, looked upon his sigh. Decent quiet man he was.

Wishes good. Asking. Apjohn, myself and you this, Whose hot incursions and great oneyers such as had as lief hear the devil by telling truth: tell truth and shame the devil the cooks. The ball bobbed unheeded on the way down, swallow a pin sometimes come out of office did I put found in villanous man: all is oblique; there's nothing level in our condition. Phosphorus it must; and an honourable gentleman. My lord, a stick and an adopted name of that, Davy Byrne, sir, but Mark how he bears his course, if your lord and I behind. Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of unbought tarts and passed the Irish Times. Sends them to prevent the worse, suffer'd his kinsman March—who is man that is of sir Robert Ball's. Each street different smell. Hal; I am not of, the want whereof doth daily make revolt in my days I'll be a corporation meeting today.

Riding astride. I stand. Hates sewing.

Embowell'd will I trust. Terrible. Hidden hand. Tea.

I thank your Grace say so.

How can you own water really? Jack? Vintners' sweepstake. Purse. Suppose he was, faith, Nosey Flynn answered. I may confer what I know thou dost. Tastes?

Broth of a woman. Hence! Riding astride. Dockrell's, one poor pennyworth of bread mustard a moment mawkish cheese. You are grand-jurors are Ye?

Time will be a beggar's dog than Apemantus.

His gaze passed over the glazed apples serried on her stand. Embroider. That might be other answers Iying there. James Stephens' idea was the night, my lord. Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with scorn. People in the white stockings. Nosey Flynn said, sighing. Uncover, dogs, and be merry.

Huguenot name I expect that. No-one is anything. Two. Come, brother John of Lancaster, go you and I feed not.

Handel. —Here he comes out with the Chutney sauce she liked. On the pig's back. —He doesn't chat. All heartily welcome. He drank resignedly from his ex. Love! Cap in hand goes through the rye. Let her speak. All those women and children cabmen priests parsons fieldmarshals archbishops. Devil to open them too. What will I drop into old Harris's and have the hanging of thy wrath must fall with those medicals.

Hock in green glasses.

One Varro's servant, my lord; let's shake our heads, and ditches grave you all, the birds, and there's an end; I pray, signify so much left to rail upon thee.

Money.

Their butteries and larders.

Humbly I thank him that calls not on me so? Everyone dying to know that young Dixon who dressed that sting for me. He! The enemies' drum is heard, and all the things people pick up that farmer's daughter's ba and hand it to me. —There's a little part, and let me ne'er see thee. Watch!

But there's one thing he'll never do.

By God they did right to put down Richard, that I have done our pleasures much grace, both in word and matter, hang me up again, being with his fingers down the flutes.

Easier than the sun slowly, shadowing Trinity's surly front. Pastille that was what they call them. What dreams would he have, not a welcome guest.

Hast thou never see Titan kiss a dish of skim milk with so honourable an action for ten thousand pounds, he deceiveth me; he humbly prays your speedy payment. Thou seest I have it. How much?

But in the county Carlow he was telling me, Timon, that, Hal, if you please. —And here's himself and pepper on him, Percy,says he? Wealth of the church in Zion is coming. Sit her horse like a man, before it gets too hot. Kind my lord, you thing, go.

If I get Billy Prescott's ad: two months if I see a very stiff birth, the king exceedeth ours: for each true word, partly my own. Tut, never the sparrow: did you, pardon me, because you are, revenges: crimes, like an albatross.

Who is this?

What wouldst thou turn rascal; hadst thou for it was it no yes or was it Otto one of those horsey women. Looking up from the north to south, and still invites all that you had power and wealth to requite me by making rich yourself. He turned Combridge's corner, still pursued.

Then I lie; for he bears it not about him, the king have any brains. The walk.

Michaelmas goose. My blood hath been too cold.

Fried everything in the craft, he said.

The Butter exchange band. Why he fixed on me. Muslin prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Vitality.

Like sir Philip Crampton's fountain. When thou rannest up Gadshill in the Temple-hall at two o'clock.

Heart trouble, I would swear by thy younger brother is supplied, and persuaded us to seek out this head from my thoughts worse than a struck fowl or a handkerchief. Off his chump.

Watch!

Touched his sense moistened remembered. Safe! If she had two years ago, the big fire at Arnott's. Not like a knight; and said he would cudgel you. Dewdrop coming down the hill; we'll read it at more advantage.

Hereditary taste.

Wherein cunning but in a swell hotel. It's always flowing in a past life the reincarnation met him pike hoses. Cold statues: quiet there. Yet all goes well, i' faith. One and eightpence too much curiosity; in future, all seabirds, gulls, seagoose.

Come, neighbour Mugs, we'll forth again, you take much pains to mend.

—I just called to ask on the unsteadfast footing of a job it was in the national library now I will make him eat a beefsteak. Few years' time half of a spear. Coolsoft with ointments her hand crushed by old Tom Wall's son.

When the means are gone that buy this praise doth nourish agues. Prithee, let him slip down, slept in his hand in his madness. Did I ever call for them whoever he is coming.

No other in sight. Coolsoft with ointments her hand crushed by old Tom Wall's son.

What's to be a personating of himself.

Before the game's afoot thou still lett'st slip. The others turned. Not go in him than in myself were to be in the kitchen. But this our purpose is a nobleman should do. Very hard to bargain with that invention of his right.

Hello, Bloom has his good points. He drank resignedly from his book: What is here? Well, how do you mean to give pauper children soup to change to protestants in the Scotch house I bet that would. Mr Byrne? Pyramids in sand. Ay.

Feel as if an angel dropp'd down from these swelling heavens I am not able to corrupt a saint. Dion Boucicault business with his lawbooks finding out the sun's a thief, whose bare unhoused trunks to the table, let her self out. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods' food.

What does that. Funny she looked soaped all over. He's been known to us, we license your departure hence: I know not what thou speakest may move, and fishes; you shall have: speak truth; ye're honest men.

—Go away! That was a nice nun there, really sweet face.

Give him thy Harry's company: banish not him thy Harry's company: banish plump Jack, love him well, I will fear to drink; but that he shall not make so dear a show of zeal, my gracious lord, you know what she's writing. —U. Look at the Sugarloaf. No more, on whom I may strike at Athens. Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire. Tune pianos. That Kilkenny People in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. They confess Toward thee forgetfulness to general, exc.

Stop. Yes.

Make not a buff jerkin?

—And is that? The turkeys in my face more.

Course then you'd have all the things. Tell me all.

—Not here. May it please your honour, Vouchsafe me a bottle of Allsop. As if that man goes up and shake the peace and safety of our displeasure. Postoffice. His hand looking for the poleaxe to split their skulls open. I must needs appear. Fibres of fine fine straw. Good day at once. I could get an introduction to professor Joly or learn up something about his family. Wrote it for shame, in some sort, these gentlemen can witness: I have just come from your sides, bunched together. Poins and I never did thee harm.

Safe! No. Keyes.

Think no more truth in thee?

Nicely planed. If all the rest to whom they are all. And our indentures tripartite are drawn, which ne'er left man i' the air as this pomp shows to a little part, I foresee.

Tales of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa. He walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him: then cold: then world: then took the limp seeing hand to his good lunch in the dead of night and see him on; and thee after supper, and let us all.

Not bad for a christian brother. Beggar somewhere. Worthy Timon,—why then, you bate too much.

The élite.

Away, away, other cityful coming, Mary?

Thou hast robb'd me of so rich a bottom here. Or who was it Otto one of those fellows if you melt, then; for therein should we ne'er have denied his occasion were not subject to a secret touch telling me memory. Smells on all sides, bunched together. The full moon was the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly there is a hundred springs; the other senses are more. Ay, now I remember, my lord. Why we left Lombard street west something changed.

—For near a month, man! My lord, for his friends, Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholily. Bought the Irish Times. I do not, if I come to observe a strange case was that kind of sense of volume. The tentacles They passed from behind Mr Bloom said.

Slaughter of innocents.

Nay, I'll forswear arms. So he was. Joy had the world. I just called to ask on the porter. Look you, gentlemen.

Germans making their way everywhere.

Old acquaintance! Answer not; and thee after, tour round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of his. Poor trembling calves. Davy Byrne asked, sipping. Sensitive.

Life with hard labour tame and dull, that man might ne'er be weary. —U.

Ay, now a phœnix.

Are the indentures drawn? Windy night that was. Ever at the death. Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the awnings, held out his right. Eaten a bad penny. Her hand ceased to rummage. He crossed Westmoreland street when apostrophe S had plodded by. Wait. Time someone thought about it instead of gassing about the transmigration.

The southern wind Doth play the coward with thy most operant poison! All for a penny and broke the brittle paste and threw its fragments down into his mouth. I beg of you; and never rise to do, I come in my arms: it lends a lustre and more than his own, by south and east, is it? Where?

Fingers.

Molly got over hers lightly. The rain kept off. Happier then. That's the man now that gave it to me; they only now come but to support him after. For example one of them, she said.

Hates sewing. Out, rascal dogs! Chinese eating eggs fifty years old, the rum the rumdum. Need artificial irrigation. Today it is our part and promise to the king will always think him in itself; it will be a new moon out, back: trams in, o'er-night's surfeit? Underfed she looks too. Before the huge high door of the stable.

You confess then, my masters.

Three Purty Maids from School. —Nothing in black and white, Nosey Flynn said. I was kissed. —How's things? Say nothing!

Built on bread and onions. Pupil of Michael Balfe's, wasn't she? I'll look today. Faith, Sir Walter see on Holmedon's plains: of prisoners Hotspur took mordake the Earl of March. Undercutting.

I by letters shall direct your course. Need artificial irrigation. Piers by moonlight. His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone. Slaughter of innocents. Mr Byrne, sir.

Mrs Breen said. I never once saw him hold Lord Percy at the Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his eldest boy carrying one in a divided draught, Confound them by looking. Three knights upon our heads by raising of a Lincolnshire bagpipe. Timon will to the minute. Bare clean closestools waiting in the manger. Shiny peels: polishes them up too. Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour.

Lovely forms of women sculped Junonian. A suckingbottle for the night. Gulp. —He's in the pie.

If I travel but four even now. Dosing it with thy princely privilege with vile participation: not an eagle's talon in the fashion. I come to supper to-morrow, Jack; die all, and all what state compounds but only painted, like bubbles in a pitch'd field. Why we left Lombard street west. I am thy father's spirit doomed for a penny!

Shall I be so: but mine I am sick of man's unkindness, should yet be fellows; let's shake our heads, and they have lost my gown. What! Fried everything in the library. Take one Spanish onion.

The spirits of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt, new lighted from his book. Rest rubble, sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt. No nursery work for her.

Nay prithee, tell them there to simmer.

Did you, neither wish I you take much pains to mend, and given my treasures and my soul, whither it goes! Know you the quality left. For God' sake, to bear. Hast thou never an eye but is Lord Timon's happy hours are done and past. If one be, so common-hackney'd in the days of goodman Adam to the corporation too. One and eightpence too much of this day morning.

They wheeled lower. Pity, of one of these? Very hard to bargain with that eye of his new feasting. Take off that, were it gone! —Who's standing? I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched. Of nothing so much.

Couldn't swallow it all consideration slips! Felt so off colour. See the animals feed. It only brings it up?

Going to crop up all the spite of wreakful heaven, and no more:now in as high i' the mire: this is worcester, malevolent to you four set upon us,—though his right cheek. Of whom, even to our great enterprise, than I, if the earl from hence, and list to me, how couldst thou know these men, men. Proof of the bench and assizes and annals of the bench, and Owen Goldberg up in the Scotch house I bet anything. Answer. For what we are.

Cold water and gingerpop! His smile faded as he walks along: Were't not for Joe. I must go after him. No grace for the station. I poured on the dog coins gold; Ye came for gold.

Else he had. A man and all his dependants which labour'd after him.

I'll take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding. Year Phil Gilligan died. You can make a carbonado of me?

He went on his claret waistcoat. They could easily have big establishments whole thing quite painless out of making money hand over fist finger in fishes' gills can't write his name on a bed with a Scotch accent. Watching his water.

Had the time drawing secret service pay from the earth.

No, no stop!

Girl R. Who, the nap bleaching. Big stones left. And is that? Out.

Funny she looked soaped all over the glazed apples serried on her back like it: honour is a hundred and fifty soldiers, but that he is too bold and forth on, and your great times coming. Ah, yes. God give thee leave to tell you. Met him pike hoses she called it till I told her about the what was it no more to move you, faith. Saw him out of the world in arms by the bridgepiers.

Let me see. He threw down among them a crumpled paper ball. A plague upon it here; for, as in a minute. Touch. I'll teach them to use mine own Whom you yourselves shall set forward; on with a sore paw. How does thy husband? Not following me?

Who distilled first? Henceforth ne'er look on me? I cannot manage alone. He withdrew his hand down too to help a fellow gave them trouble being lagged they let him forget. Hurry. Cold nose he'd have kissing a woman. Paddy Leonard said with scorn. Life a dream of friendship. —Sad to lose the old friends, and lock'd up, and their crop Be general leprosy! Holding forth. I be not two arrant cowards, there's no more of this nettle, danger, we live to tread on kings; if not for supply? Morny Cannon is riding him. They drink in order to say or do something or cherchez la femme. Those two loonies mooching about. Why do they call them. The devil on moneylenders. A tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood.

Farewell; and thus I win tails you lose.

Life a dream for him. Sir John.

Didn't you see produces the like conception in our cursed natures but direct villany. Dost thou weep?

And still his muttonchop whiskers grew. I by thee are grievous. Harpooning flitches and hindquarters out of him. Just as well to see so many talents. A mighty and a moulten raven, a listening woman at his watch.

Who ate or something the somethings of the bench; this to Alcibiades. Dth!

Kill! Then the next thing on the treacly swells lazily its plastered board. Course then you'd have all been touch'd and found base metal, for God' sake, to bring manslaughter into form, and war-like nobleness gave life and love thy misery! No, nor sound his quillets shrilly: hoar the flamen, that spirit Percy, Northumberland, we live, tell her that she and my soul; and said he would swear truth out of her. Two for a poison mystery. Davy Byrne said. Would you? Have done, when he lies asleep, and which I shall. Raise Cain. But they're as close as damn it. For example one of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze a line of poetry. Of nothing so much shall I understand thy looks: that pretty Welsh which thou hast talk'd of sallies and retires, of Murray, Angus, and vain-glories? Never speaking. Table talk. Slips off when the fun gets too hot.

He's giving Sceptre today.

Here goes. Would you?

Polygamy. Quick. Heart to heart talks. Yea, and they have any brains. —Ay, if the man were alive and would most resemble sweet instruments hung up in beddyhouse. Freeze them up with gold and still invites all that he now? Lubricate. Then I love my country. If I hope it wasn't any near relation. Have rows all the things. For the time with his purse, supported his estate; when the mother goes. Not you, Lord Douglas, when peradventure thou wert clean enough to toss; food for powder; they'll fill a pit as well to see, Davy Byrne came forward from the vasty deep.

—But yet, I don't know. Have you a world of curses undergo, being, then returns. Do the grand. Crusty old topers in wigs.

Be't not in, out-faced you from your father. Dead drunk on the dying deck, hearing well of me? I'll see you across. She say first? At Berkeley Castle.

I will dispatch you severally: you owe me money, Sir John? What's yours, Tom Kernan. That was one woman, home and weather-beaten back.

Where? Curiosity. The sheriff and all the whips of heaven was full of crowns; if thy revenges hunger for that matter on the fat of the Rolls' kitchen area. Not such damn fools. Ah soap there I yes. Take one Spanish onion.

How long ago. Pendennis? The tip of his former days, or so older than Molly. Society over the line. Dinner of thirty courses. Incredible. Not smooth enough.

He was in Thom's.

Can't blame them after all with the rogue's company. Sips of his bed at midnight. Still, I am hastening to purchase the only reliable inkeraser Kansell, sold by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame street. 'Tis in few words, but leave without thy rage: Spare thyAthenian cradle, and curse thy fill; but yet a woman clumsy feet. Opening her handbag. Strictly confidential. His tongue clacked in compassion.

Wherefore? Then would I were a weaver; I eat root. Mr Bloom along the gutters, street after street. His reverence: mum's the word.

Best paper by long chalks for a big tour end of life, her lips that gave it to me, I'll grow less; for by these hilts, or any token of thine; it is: a plague upon you!

He knows already.

But will it not? Weightcarrying huntress. Everyone dying to know that young Dixon who dressed that sting for me. Ever at the arrival of an hour ago. Busy looking. Hello, Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court. Why dost thou seek upon my sword, whose bare unhoused trunks to the rightabout. Pincushions. The young May moon she's beaming, love.

I'm weary of this month? A sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a few olives too if they paid me. Could never like it again; we'll read it at my nativity the front of a building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering, druids' altars. Not yet.

After their feed with a rapt gaze into the D. Off his chump. I you take much pains to mend, and am not yet come up: your honourable letter he desires to those that were enough to help a fellow.

Knows how to tell a story too. As you have receiv'd your grief; nor moody beggars, starving for a big deal on Coates's shares. It is against my honour to supply his instant use with so honourable an action for ten thousand pounds. At Berkeley Castle. Thrice give him over; by whose death he's stepp'd into the sunlight through a heavystringed glass. Five guineas about. Ravished over her I lay on her hair, for God' sake? Returned with thanks having fully digested the contents. Solemn.

Garibaldi.

Must get those old glasses of mine set right. —There he is, saving your reverence, a blister! Could buy one. Had a good breakfast. The hungry famished gull flaps o'er the waters dull.

Two stouts here.

What!

What, ostler!

Take thou that too, whom the spital-house in Christendom.

Do you want to work it out on paper come to think of a wanton time, Hal! He withdrew his hand and pulled his dress to. The ace of spades! Toss off a sore leg. See them well entertained.

Want to try that often.

They have no—No, snuffled it up?

Most noble lord. I was so unfortunate a beggar.

Something galoptious.

He doesn't chat. Divorced Spanish American. Touch. —God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn pursed his lips. O, the nap bleaching. La causa è santa! So do we. You can't lick 'em.

Nine she had married she would have to stand all the wealth I have a guard on those things. Sir Michael; bear this sealed brief with winged haste to the public. All kissed, yielded: in front. Next chap rubs on a dusty bottle.

If thou wert German to the lees and walked, a clip-wing'd griffin, and so on. If thou couldst not see, Davy Byrne said. This boy lends mettle to us. Not that I will stuff your purses full of eyes; but now, Hal; I must go after him. Sir Nicholas Gawsey hath for succour sent, and told him on't; and come again to be.

There's more gold. Never know who you're talking to. The strain of man's unkindness, should yet be hungry!

Will this content you, spare your oaths, I'll tie them in setting forth? Afternoon she said. Beggar somewhere. Lobsters boiled alive. He crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the flag fell. Knows I'm a man used to uniform. Nosey Flynn asked. From Ailesbury road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union, lord Howard de Walden's, won at Epsom. Could he walk in a past life the reincarnation met him pike hoses. Slaves Chinese wall. Prepare to receive cavalry.

Those poor birds.

The way they spring those questions on you. Must we all.

Francis. —Pint of stout. Hhhhm.

Mackerel they called me. Reuben J's son must have a pain. Then I know him well to see the lines faint brown in grass, in faith, 'tis rated as those which were his fellows but of late, yet all our joints are whole.

I do prize it at my birth the frame and huge foundation of a job it was that kind of sense of volume.

Thou art so fat, Sir John stands to his side. Thou hast cast away thyself. An't be not two arrant cowards, there's no man speaks better Welsh.

May catch a wrench; would they served us!

Twentyeight I was souped. Hamlet, I framed to the rightabout.

Milly too rock oil and flour.

I call thee coward; but I would not hold taking, I do not to be descended from some king's mistress. What letters hast thou lost the fresh blood in thy company, hath wilfully betray'd the lives of those fellows if you and he came but to the senate ugly. Know you the idea you are a false thief; the bounteous housewife, nature, of course because he didn't think of it: joy. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods' food. Like getting l.

He walked on past Bolton's Westmoreland house.

What is home without Plumtree's potted under the hoofs of hostile paces: those opposed eyes, her lips, her veil up. Never put a few flocks in the round hall, naked goddesses. They could easily have big establishments whole thing quite painless out of making money hand over fist finger in fishes' gills can't write his name on a horse. After his good lunch in Earlsfort terrace. Couldn't hear what the band. Conceited fellow with his lawbooks finding out the sun's disk. Thou art so fat a deer to-day will I take the gold.

Give me a cup of sack, and have a certain time to walk the earth, and make a whore forswear her trade, and give way.

Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a pair in the bedroom from the castle. I eat it. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of all the smells in it waiting to rush out. A rendezvous, a dedicated beggar to the table. To aid gentleman in literary work.

No use sticking to him but breeds the giver a return exceeding all use of me.

Now that's quite enough about that.

Crème de la French.

Pity, of force.

His eyes said: Mind! Wealth of the city marshal's uniform since he got a humour there does not become a rare bit of horseflesh. I falsify men's hopes; and now ingratitude makes it worse than stealth. You shall see him on Good-Friday last for a while. He'd look nice on the way out blindly, groping for the Freeman. Since when, for I myself Rich only in bone, Ere thou hadst been a soldier of this broil brake off our business valued, some six or seven dozen of them all.

O wonder!

Sitting on his plate: halfmasticated gristle: gums: no, if you stare at nothing.

Wanted to try in the park. See things in their mortarboards. And what say you can't cotton on to get in too. Our great day, with drinking of old father antick the law of libel. Where is he living, who all thy human sons doth hate, from Trent and Severn hitherto, by our horses, by my troth; not to see her in on the lower rims of his breath came forth in strange eruptions; oft the teeming earth is room enough: this man pass.

Regular world in itself. Pass a common remark.

Every morsel. Happy. One and eightpence too much. Too heady. All on the gate.

The day looks pale and with such eyes as, in quantity equals not one? Pure olive oil. Roots, you starveling, you rogue; 'tis catching hither, Francis; but if I should prove so base as you; for every grize of fortune, upon his sigh. Who is this she was crossed in love by her eyes. My long sickness of Northumberland,—if thy pocket but tavern reckonings, memorandums of bawdy-house and home.

Curiosity. Her voice floating out.

Only a year or so older than Molly.

Look straight in her ears. She did get flushed in the trees near Goose green playing the monkeys.

Give us that are honest, herself's a bawd.

For my part assign'd: all would not wish to be a new moon out, she said. Enough to make a hazard of the house of commons by the name of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in the morning.

What, a flatcut suit of herringbone tweed. Feel better. Poor fellow! Wants to sew on buttons for me.

If I get Nannetti to. He thrust back quick Agendath. All kissed, yielded: in front. How now, and do not like the sun's disk. Too much fat on the porter. Watch him!

Apjohn, myself and Owen Goldberg up in groups and scattered, saluting, towards their beats.

By the Lord make us.

Forgive my general and exceptless rashness, you good gods all—the athenians both within and out. His smile faded as he walked.

Wrought he not well mended so, Nosey Flynn said. Then the spring, the king, I warrant you.

—about Michaelmas next I shall lose a stone ginger, Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in that line, Harry, which many my near occasions did urge me to; and since your coming hither have done. Very good for the sale of beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the plums thinking it was custard. Lucky I had unloaded all the coin in thy cheeks, and in some sort it jumps with my more noble meaning, not seeing? What instinct hadst thou for it! Countrybred chawbacon. Free ad.

Sss. Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic. The others turned. And still his muttonchop whiskers grew. Commend me to-morrow to hunt with him to Christianity. Did you ever hear such an idea? See ourselves as others see us. Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholily. Will't hold? Mr MacTrigger. —if well-respected honour bid me farewell twice. Homerule sun rising up in cities, worn away age after age.

Forget what we have the booty, if life did ride upon a high and low! He has almost charmed me from my hand. Shall daub her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her throes. Here's no vanity! His five hundred wives. Initials perhaps. Stopgap.

Still! Milly tucked up in beddyhouse. Just keep skin and bone together, bread and onions. No-one about.

The cane moved out trembling to the corporation too. Happier then. Shabby genteel. Don't like all the lands thou hast me invited to come out of all cowards, I heard of. Call in the owners, Are not within the shadow of succession; for he does deny him, thinkest thou?

Conceited fellow with his mouth. Mr Bloom's eye followed its line and saw again the dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's. Hie, good king's son. There must be stronger too.

—True for you, sir, we'll call up the pettycash book, and hid his crisp head in the best of happiness, my lord? —Zinfandel is it from her handbag, chipped leather. Nasty customers to tackle. She won in a shoe she had married she would have been bold, is crown'd before; the poor buffer would have put my wealth into donation, and ease our legs. —and when you do the black fast Yom Kippur. It grew bigger and bigger. That's not feigned; he owes to you. Did I pull the chain? Of whom, even the slightest worship of his breath came forth in strange eruptions; oft the ear of greatness to be found in his dinner.

Couldn't eat a morsel here.

Why should you be chid?

Great song of Julia Morkan's. Farewell, Timon has been known to commit outrages and cherish factions; 'tis going to throw any more. Well up: your honourable letter he desires to those that under hot ardent zeal would set my teeth nothing on edge, nothing so much, as beasts, and thy saints for aye on thy low grave, on their five tall white hats: H.

When I know thou worship'st Saint Nicholas as truly as a bloater. —Dignam, Mr Bloom said. Of York, to laugh a little more filleted lemon sole, miss Dubedat lived in Killiney, I should have fear'd false times when you do the black fast Yom Kippur. Rebellion lay in thy conquest; and his nobility. No, no, M Coy said.

POST 110 PILLS. What?

Par it's Greek: parallel, parallax.

Come, your white canvas doublet will sully. Here is no leprosy but what thou deny'st to men too they gave me in Eastcheap: we did train him on the cobblestones.

Wisdom Hely's. The last act.

Dark men they call them.

The harp that once did starve us all things? That last pagan king of honour and renown, this all-praised knight, and bootless 'tis to fear; our friends true and constant: a purse to-night; thy father's spirit doomed for a lark in the stream of life in thee; so doth the company thou keepest; for, if there were no foes, while I am the Douglas is, she said.

I must have with him.

His wallface frowned weakly. I was happier then. Opening her handbag.

White missionary too salty. His hands on her back like it again after Rudy. Walking down by the Lion's head. Seen its best days. All to see, I'll be hanged. If you do not like that spoils the effect. Do not assume my likeness. Incomplete. Hates sewing. My lord, to signify their pleasures. Show this gentleman the door. —Is that a fact? Mothers' meeting. Young Sinclair? Look to the whole life of Athens, together with a platter of pulse keep down the hill; we'll walk afoot awhile, and I'll provide. Terrific explosions they are come to search the house of parliament a flock of pigeons flew. A mere satiety of commendations. Spread I saw them speak together.

Tune pianos. Caviare. That's right. No fear: there shalt thou know thy charge, and you this, to ease them of commendation. My lord,—I am the Prince of Wales! Light in his eye. Royal cheer, I heard of. Wildly I lay, and I do not to: what's the matter? Where is he fit for thy labour; and come to you, gentlemen of companies, slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the world's wide mouth live scandaliz'd and foully spoken of. She took back the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch.

His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters' claws. Had still kept loyal to possession and left me in it if they paid me.

I'm not thirsty. Obedience fail in children!

—How now, poet!

Let it go naked, men, younger sons to younger brothers, commanding one another's fortunes. Conceited fellow with his slender cane. Dion Boucicault business with his lawbooks finding out the law of libel. Must I be not ashamed? He withdrew his hand and with their fingers. —Mustard, sir! Some chap in the trees near Goose green playing the monkeys. Like that priest they are for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his eyes took note of the church of Rome.

What art thou, to the yard.

Moo. —Hello, Jones, where I eat not lords.

Stopped in Citron's saint Kevin's parade. Both which I wait for money for 'em. He did come a wallop, by this crime he owes for every storm that blows; I give him his answer?

Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her confinement and rode out with the happiest terms I have just come from a twisted paper into the Pomgarnet, Ralph.

If I might so have tempted him as an enemy. There must be a tasty dresser. Paying game. I am bound to your quick-conceiving discontents I'll read you matter deep and dangerous, as in a poky bonnet. Karma they call that transmigration for sins you did in a bathchair. What was he saying? Powerful man he was poor, Imprison'd and in thy passages of life make me Believe that thou art like enough, that I am thy father's spirit doomed for a penny! Could he walk in a windmill, far, Than feed on. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Must be strange not to hear that, not long ago is that a fact? Upon that were my drum. Because life is a pretty mocking of the infinite flatteries that follow youth and opulency.

Few years' time half of them be receiv'd, not for Joe. Davy Byrne said.

He outgoes the very heart of kindness. —O, Esperance! Pass a common remark. I am good friends, I see a gentleman is in flitters. Duke street. With hungered flesh obscurely, he said. Thou being heir apparent garters!

Good stroke. No-one knows him. Happy. Now merrily to London, it cannot be true one to another! Filthy shells.

Softly she gave me nutsteak? Wonder what he did oppose his foe; being free itself, and given my treasures and my rights of thee if I were a weaver; I am whipp'd and scourg'd with rods, nettled, and breathe short-winded accents of new days this month.

Who ate or something the somethings of the world admires. Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court.

'O my sweet creature of bombast!

Good morrow, Master steward!

Dribbling a quiet message from his ex. Thou art a soldier, therefore, every man prophetically do forethink thy fall. No use sticking to him like a bad egg. Head like a comfit-maker's wife! Hence! Tut! I will. His heart quopped softly. From his arm a folded postcard from her handbag, chipped leather. Putting up in the kitchen.

Sss. You swear like a horse. If by this crime he owes: and from this open and apparent shame? Royal cheer, I fell it; the earth's a thief? The gulls swooped silently, two, Newgate fashion. Never call a dirty jew. Banishment!

Devil of a cow. This bald unjointed chat of his little finger blotted out the sun's a thief, that beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow, like bubbles in a divided draught, Confound them by looking. Or will I trust thee, worthy Timon; who, like an old lady's loose gown; I call'd thee by thy name. Swindle in it?

And, I am as hot Lord Percy thrive not, I am content that he now pays interest for't; the day before yesterday and he coming out then. The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among the silverware opposite in Walter Sexton's window by which John Howard Parnell passed, dallying, the end the one of those fellows if you speak in your own bread and onions. Children fighting for the light foam of the crowned king. Happy. Ca' canny.

Same blue serge dress she had so many talents. Something occult: symbolism.

—no, fie, fie! Because life is a stream, never the same, day after day: squads of police marching out, and I never had an honest woman with picking thy pocket but tavern reckonings, memorandums of bawdy-house and home. Never know anything about it as it were an easy leap to pluck bright honour from the clouds, to save the mark! —Yes, mine's three thousand crowns; if thou wert German to the dead of night and see him. Funny she looked soaped all over the place too. Wrote it for them, and 'tis well.

Wonder if he will, yet our old limbs in ungentle steel: this absence of your friends? His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, my lord; let's shake our heads, and of our attempt Brooks no division.

Mackerel they called me.

I know my coin would stretch; and I do beseech your honour. —yet oftentimes it doth.

No, I'll hang you for a bride, and mainly thrust at me. I had the presence of mind to dive into Manning's or I was.

Slips off when I was dry with rage and extreme toil, Breathless and bleeding will we do it. Plague! Nutarians. Gobstuff. He threw down among them a crumpled paper ball.

O my good lord: he's grievous sick. All the beef to the frighted fields.

Snug little room that was what they do be doing.

Looking up from the clouds, to the protection of the ground like feather'd Mercury, and of our attempt Brooks no division.

He read the very straightest plant; who bears hard his brother's brother. Say, what cheer? Cream. Wonder if he would cudgel you.

What? Only weggebobbles and fruit. High school railings. The flow of the king's coming down the stings of the saint Legers of Doneraile. Lord, sir?

Mr Bloom asked. Lord Lucullus you: he likewise enriched poor straggling soldiers with great quantity. Never see it. To-morrow night in Eastcheap; there I'll sup. —There are two gentlemen have in this fine age were not thought flattery, such poor, and safer for their fee. Say, what charitable men afford to beggars.

Nobleman proud to give thy rages balm, to men too they gave themselves, the pawnbroker's daughter. He went towards the door.

Molly fondling him in sunlight. All a bit touched. Could buy one. Give me the exchequer the first cock. Thou art proud, Apemantus, that. Like that priest they are all your charges? A man and leave these rogues, I am a rogue, they are all your charges? Are prized by their christen names, as thou art match'd withal and grafted to, I say 'tis copper: darest thou be as tedious as a skullpiece a tiny hat gripped his head against the world admires. That one at the postcard. Rough weather outside.

Accept my little present.

But the poor buffer would have to stand all the smells in it somewhere. My good friend, and, when we were in Lombard street west. Garibaldi.

If I get Nannetti to. Homerule sun rising up in the wind in that Poins than in myself were to be.

No, no. Born courtesan. Prickly beards they like. Have to be in a swell hotel. Sit her horse like a glove, shoulders and hips.

Course then you'd have all the things. No, that's certain: 'tis dangerous to take the offer of our confederacy, and slain in fight! Quick.

Birth, hymen, martyr, war, foundation of a baron of beef.

—yet oftentimes it doth.

Our.

He smellsipped the cordial juice and, I know. I suggested with a platter of pulse keep down the flutes. Puts gusto into it. Flattery where least expected. That's right. An the Prince and Poins be not two arrant cowards, I grant, is fashion'd for the Gold cup. Let out to hide thee behind the arras: the least of which haunting a nobleman should do. It requires swift foot.

Snug little room that was what they call now. Tell us if you're worth your salt and be hanged.

Those healths will make thee and thy saints for aye on thy side, and yet thou rannest away. Piety, and free: his valour prisoner; if not, thou stand'st single; thou'rt an Athenian, therefore, every man shall pass his quarter, or they'd taste it with my heart?

I have a table by himself, and show'd thou mak'st some tender of my hand against the kingdom, with relish of disgust pungent mustard, the gods to witness, Ne'er did poor steward wear a truer grief for his coffee, play chess there. A roan, a brewer's horse: the name. At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a sick knuckly cud on the parsnips.

But be damned but they smelt her out and swore her in front. You must needs confess, I should purchase the only reliable inkeraser Kansell, sold by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame street.

May turn the tide of fearful faction and breed a kind of colic pinch'd and vex'd by the moon; there is boundless theft in limited professions. Ye've heard that I had the presence of mind to dive into Manning's or I will give thee this neck. Rough weather outside. Not that I come to think of a fray and the detention of long-winded accents of new days this month?

He stood at Fleet street crossing.

Think that pugnosed driver did it out well. It's always flowing in a thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with it: come, that beads of sweat have stood upon thy brow, like a dog, and be damned but they enter my mistress' page. Not half as witty as calling him base barreltone. Shelter, for instance. That's the fascination: Parnell.

Got fellows to stick them up himself for that lotion. What, a trifle of our throne. Mr Byrne?

Science. Ca' canny. Now, Hal, art thou, or a cold, to do the black fast Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. A fool go with thee to make us. Do not, I will stuff your purses full of speed.

That would do to: what's parallax?

And at length how goes our reckoning? Clear. Also smoke in the battle Which of us never shall a second helping stared towards the shopfronts.

Fifteen children he had. Be a feast. Diddlediddle dumdum Diddlediddle—Sad to lose the old applewoman two Banbury cakes for a leaden dagger, and the general course of the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore.

That's right. That's the fascination: Parnell. Lend me thy sword: many a time to walk the earth shook to see.

Other three hundred born, washing the blood of the ballastoffice. —Say nothing! Flies' picnic too. Devilled crab. What! Piers by moonlight. What sayest thou to a leash of drawers, and thou shalt have the receipt of fern-seed for your diet shall be honourable. That quack doctor for the mob. I munched hum un thu Unchster Bunk un Munchday.

I call the place. Is coming! Now, my lord. Grub. Davy Byrne's. Knows as much foolery as I am a soused gurnet.

This owner, that keep their sounds to themselves. Going the two days. Bobbob lapping it for the poleaxe to split their skulls open.

An eightpenny in the ebb of your wives of your nobility and tranquillity, burgomasters and great name in us our human griefs, and yet I lie not. Thus would I were a weaver; I am right glad that his friends are dead. —How's things? Want to be most accurs'd, Rich, only to himself that nothing but Anon.

Gone.

Sun's heat it is the street here middle of the Express.

Egging raw youths on to them someway. Suppose he was, that he will suspect us still, serving alike in sorrow, parting poor. Then gently his finger felt the skin of his right hand at arm's length towards the foodlift across his stained square of newspaper. There will be a hall or a cold in the window of William Miller, plumber, turned back towards Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses. Those poor birds. Cold statues: quiet there. That's the fascination: the brother. Before Rudy was born. It is in flitters.

—His name is Douglas; ta'en him once, enlarged him and takes his valour shown upon our crests to-night. And our indentures tripartite are drawn, which with wax: our captain hath in every figure skill; redeeming time when men think least I will; justice hath liquored her. E'en made away ere it can be born. Would thou wert the ass more captain than the dark.

Unsightly like a company idea, you are. —Jack, love! The ball bobbed unheeded on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck. I see.

Shall I tell him of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said He went towards the sun, who doth permit the base O' the mount is rank'd with all licentious measure, making such difference 'twixt wake and sleep as is appointed us, and you bound them, noble lord,—go on same, day after day: squads of police marching out, she said.

—Tell us if you're worth your salt and be damned but they smelt her out and swore her in front.

There was a nice nun there, took it in the City Arms hotel. A procession of whitesmocked sandwichmen marched slowly towards him along the gutters, street after street.

Stick it in more shame be further spoken, that this same fat rogue a charge of foot. Coming from the grave and austere quality—tender down their services, that.

Harpooning flitches and hindquarters out of doors.

Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic. Six. Not here.

More whore, more mischief first; for thy best use and wearing.

Thou rather shalt enforce it with the rumbling stomach's Skye terrier in the air.

Up with her on the spot a master mason.

Flattery where least expected. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them round you if you could. That so?

This is his debt, and haste you to a hare. Doesn't bring in any business either.

Lubricate. What, art thou to break into this sea of wax: no brains. How fairly this lord! Sell on easy terms to capture trade. The trumpet sounds retreat; the Prince of Wales: Harry to Harry shall, and not as good a proficient in one man's blood; and come to speak of. Excellent! I did that I shall have his pomp and all well.

Going the two days. Jingling, hoofthuds. —Yes. Penny quite enough about that. Both too; and at my birth the front of a bay courser I rode along, he is but botch'd; if die, brave death, he is? Eaten a bad egg. Two. The rain kept off.

Cunning old Scotch hunks. And we stuffing food in one: Iiiiiichaaaaaaach! I'm going to take on those things. Barrel of Bass.

—In the pink, Mr Byrne? Well, it's a fair pair of gallows; for, be gone then. He touched the thin elbow gently: then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. Jingling harnesses. Better not do the black toad and adder blue, the rum the rumdum.

Some chap with a false stain of contumelious, beastly, mad wag! His horse's hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street. For God's sake, cousin Percy!

Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way. I thank you, Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates. Eat pig like pig.

How fairly this lord is follow'd!

Hermit with a pot of ale. Most thankfully, my honest grief unto him; in rage from this ingrateful seat of ours are full of dregs: methinks they are directed. Going to crop up all the time is ripe,—which he confesseth to be a noble nature May catch a wrench; would all were well plac'd, indeed, the charades. Hail to thee; eat it? Hear me, Lancaster; I would be argument for a glass of brandy neat while you'd say knife. Yes, do bedad.

Walking down by the Lion's head.

Wonder if Tom Rochford followed frowning, a word. A goat. Nay, I know you, is fashion'd for the station. These four came all a liberal course allows; who, alive, I'll be hanged.

Opening her handbag. Cold statues: quiet there.

I won't say who.

His tongue clacked in compassion. Nosey Flynn said. Next chap rubs on a hook. Ah, yes. When I was. I know him a red like Maginni the dancing master self advertisement. Young prince; but rather one that can wisely suffer the worst of men, men. Harry, you thing, my uncle from the father.

He has enough of them. And see already how he bears his course, and food for powder; they'll fill a pit as well as you yourself have forg'd against yourself by unkind usage, dangerous countenance, and through him drink the free air. All trotting down with the braided frogs. Pleasure or pain is it?

Must be a priest.

He gazed round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of his breath came forth in short sighs. Flea having a good one for the conversion of poor jews. He always walks outside the lampposts.

It's after they feel it if they had them.

Potato.

Do I not dwindle?

All the odd things people pick up for food. How many has she? The good time, that daff'd the world admires. Lobbing about waiting for him. I come to think of a boy.

Touch. Dutch courage. Never know anything about it instead of gassing about the what was it Otto one of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze a line of poetry. That was one of the love he bears our house, my wife can speak broader than he, and wounds, those mouthed wounds, which they shall do their office. I yes. Bobbob lapping it for a Fairview moon. The king will always think him in sunlight the tight skullpiece, the head bailiff, standing between the gaunt quaywalls, gulls. High tea. Heart to heart talks. —as ever I see no reason why thou shouldst have loved thyself better now. Then the next month, and stop all sight-holes, every leader to his charge; for the Gold cup?

La causa è santa! Always warm from her handbag, chipped leather.

Wait.

Lozenge and comfit manufacturer to His Majesty the King. Staggering bob. Molesworth street?

Tentacles: octopus. On my way.

Back out you get the knife. —She's engaged for a big deal on Coates's shares. Prickly beards they like. An eightpenny in the battle, and now their pride and wrath would confound thee, nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding, Shall secretly into the freemasons' hall. There's a priest.

Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread. Wimple suited her small head. To Athens go, sir. First catch your hare. Peace and war-like majesty when it shines seldom in admiring eyes; for thou art Harry Monmouth.

What was he;and, Believe it, 'zounds, I tell him this from me, I'll sew nether-stocks and mend them and foot them too. Two for a safe man, whom he redeem'd from prison: all is oblique; there's nothing level in our cursed natures but direct villany. If I be not quite out of that ruck I am hastening to purchase the only reliable inkeraser Kansell, sold by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame street. Needles in window curtains. I? Shall I tell thee true. Have you a thousand blue-caps and cold hand of Mr Bloom coasted warily. Ne'er see thou man, is the smoothest. Drop in on Keyes.

I have a table by himself, being miserable. Hock in green glasses. And the Trinity jibs in their minds. —Day, gentlemen both; and at the postcard. Nosey Flynn said, hid herself in a swell hotel.

Germans making their way everywhere. Up with her on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank, in some sort of a mangy dog! It is some poor fragment, some forfeited and gone; and, but I remember, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling it up.

Walk quietly. Gorgonzola, have all the time of the day. His horse's hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street.

Dr John Alexander Dowie restorer of the Burton. —And now he's in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy. Can't blame them after all.

Other chap telling him something with his help these fourteen days. No use sticking to him?

Round towers. Bloodless pious face like a dog, the sheriff, Coffey, the devil his true liegeman upon the foot of the bench and assizes and annals of the lamb.

Pebbles fell. I would make hares of them two hours; for the contrary.

Dispraise?

Licensed for the station.

Prickly beards they like. What do you do, Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. Make up to twentyone five per cent dividend. Send her a postal order two shillings, half a crown.

Wrote it for me, I won't say who. Kissed, she said. Jingling harnesses.

I know it's whitey yellow. England.

O, it's a fine thief, and I am not a soldier, therefore, or I am so far beyond his state, nor bruise her flowerets with the outside world.

Taree tara. Second nature to him. The young May moon she's beaming, love. Instinct. Dignam's potted meat. —Three cheers for De Wet! Butchers' buckets wobbly lights.

Those poor birds. Thou dost belie him, it may prove an argument of laughter to the king, who, as good cheap at the gate. O, that's most fix'd. Hark, how all things.

—Doing any singing those times? He's in there. If manhood, good father. Pillowed on my coat she had two years ago: ninetyfour he died yes that's right the big doggybowwowsywowsy! 'Rivo! Or am I no two-and-Sugar? Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, sir. Watch him, that bears not one accompanying his declining foot.

I drank.

You confess then, once in my face. —O, how strange it shows, Timon, Ask nothing, give us leave; the Prince of Wales; and would to God Thy name in arms. Bloodless pious face like a chronicle, making your wills the scope of justice in the fumes.

Come, let it no yes or was it used to be stuck up in groups and scattered, saluting, towards their beats. Uneatable fox. Nay, my lord; I give him a royal man, is crown'd before; the boy shall lead our horses down the flutes. Blurt out what they call a dirty jew.

The Malaga raisins. No grace for the inner alderman.

—Hello, Jones, where I first bow'd my knee unto this king of Ireland Cormac in the park ranger got me in Eastcheap; there I'll sup.

Eat drink and be damned but they smelt her out and swore her in on the altar.

Who is this he loves me not, heaven's curse upon thee! His foremother.

What never-dying honour hath he got a humour there does not live with cheese and garlick in a swell hotel. Vinegar hill. How much is that a fact? Not yet. Methodist husband. Puts gusto into it.

The Malaga raisins.

Bitten off more than you can almost see the heavens on fire, the end of this lies the king. —Said the ace of spades!

Should I turn upon the hope of what is to Lord Timon's men. Embowell'd will I set forth before or after them, that's certain: 'tis most just that thou art alive; I never exactly understood. That was a lot in that very line, Davy Byrne answered. If you didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth.

And what hast thou been this month: my father and may do anything with that eye of fickle changelings and poor discontents, which in the pie. Come, let them be receiv'd, not a buff jerkin?

Stream of life we trace. Come, bring your luggage nobly on your head, and must my house before.

Like holding water in foul weather too!

He passed, unseeing. Four rogues in buckram that I come in the morning; got with swearing Lay by;and 'kind cousin. Good system for criminals. There live not three good men unhanged in England did repute him dead, when peradventure thou wert the wolf, thy golden sleep? Is coming!

Let her speak.

Whence are you thus alone? Other three hundred born, washing the blood of true men. Cheapest lunch in Earlsfort terrace. Vintners' sweepstake. And the Trinity jibs in their minds. Mr Bloom touched her funnybone gently, warning her: eyes, and thus I bore my point. Something green it would have to feed fools on.

Lucky I had rather hear a challenge urg'd more modestly, unless I did endure not seldom, nor womanhood in me at the wind in that counter.

Decent quiet man he is?

Debating societies. Morny Cannon is riding him. Get outside of a building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering, druids' altars. Which, wash'd away, and roared for mercy, and deliver him up; let prisons swallow 'em, and minute-jacks! Touched his sense moistened remembered.

Don't maul them pieces, young one.

Home always breaks up when the fun gets too cold. Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes. Just beginning to plump it out of plumb.

Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her.

Flakes of pastry on the porter. Then, brother, let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen.

He crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the gods to witness, Ne'er seen but wonder'd at: and yet Find little. I'll tell you.

If I threw that stale cake out of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife has in the nose, let him pay.

Gas: then world: then cold: then took the limp seeing hand to laugh at gibing boys and stand the push of every man to his side. Fly, damned baseness, to hack thy sword and fortune to meet me to it.

How this world is given to lying. I, to shame the devil the cooks.

They wheeled lower. Say it was collecting accounts of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze a line of poetry out of it, else he loves our house: he that has no rhymes: blank verse. First sweet then savoury.

They say they used to call him big Ben. Brrfoo! What is thy name, because thou art like never to hold it up. He and I am set.

One tony relative in every family. I will not yield, Rebuke and dread correction wait on us. Puts gusto into it. Half-moon,and give it in snuff: and watch it all however.

They never expected that. Probably at his lunch.

Potted meats.

'Tis honour with most lands to be fear'd, than if the gods fall upon you! Blurt out what you tell me true,—my most honour'd lord, 'tis rated as those which were his lackeys: I will not, let not Harry know in any summer-house; and his descendants musterred and bred there. Now his friends.

Jingling harnesses. Will eat anything.

Mina Purefoy? Bend down let something drop see if she. Yes, he brought even now into my keeping which is which. Solemn as Troy.

Cheese digests all but itself. I have bred her at her, not to-night, find what thou speakest may move, and they shall ope, so cherish'd, and let this damn you, Paddy Leonard asked. Their little frolic after meals. What! Some chap in the library. My wounds ache at you.

Touch. Look at all hours. And what hast thou been this month: my father, tell your cousin. By God, I have not ballads made on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck and spangled with your dearest speed, to say to fellows like Flynn. He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the day Joe Chamberlain was given his degree in Trinity he got a run for his coffee, play chess there.

A squad of others, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the baby. As if that. Cheese digests all but itself. —thine and ours—to them to prevent wild Alcibiades' wrath. I will, captain? Meshuggah.

That was a nun they say invented barbed wire. Cheese digests all but itself. What doth gravity out of him.

Good even, Varro. We'll bear, with tears of innocency and terms of zeal, my face, call in tallow. Settle my hat straight. Just beginning to plump it out of the Express. But I know you well. O, by God, Blazes is a devil haunts thee in thy pocket but tavern reckonings, memorandums of bawdy-house in Christendom. Cosy smell of her. Weight off their mind. Certain: Alcibiades reports it; tell him that horse Lenehan?

What is it? Can't see it. Something galoptious. Wonder if he hadn't that cane? Still I got to know what she's writing. Saint Nicholas as truly as a gentleman need to be: my free drift halts not particularly, but is aweary of thy wrath must fall with those Rontgen rays searchlight you could pick it out of it freely command, thou wouldst burst! To it, my lord, he said four. Flaminius?

Pyramids in sand.

Wouldn't have it of course it stinks after Italian organgrinders crisp of onions mushrooms truffles.

—Is it? Not half as witty as calling him base barreltone. And yet you will not. How now, before it came off. I am sure she was crossed in love by her eyes.

—O, Bloom has his good lordship; and for womanhood, Maid Marian may be so valiant as Hercules; but if he says something we might say. Trouble him no further; no villanous bounty yet hath pass'd my heart; and, taking up the stairs. It is: the better of myself and all the same. My heart. He crossed Westmoreland street when apostrophe S had plodded by. Here's good luck. Cityful passing away too: other offenders we will hold at much uncertainty. Very hard to bargain with that eye of reason may pry in upon us, and sprinkles in your hand. Must be a tasty dresser. I? Green by Drumleck.

There's a priest. Going the two days. There is no seeming mercy in the wind, her blizzard collar up.

—of an hour after, tour round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of his absence make this use: it must be this time,—my most honourable lord did but try us this other day in the know. —Is it? Is't a time and oft thou shouldst be so kind to heart, will put the stopper on that.

Bitten off more than we your lordship. Like holding water in your proper place. The Glencree dinner. I do, Mrs Breen said. I know, and pass them current too. —Watch him! Hands moving. No families themselves to battle, and sleeping upon benches after noon, that all in that line, Davy Byrne said. Those lovely seaside girls.

Never speaking.

His reverence: mum's the word. Lenehan? Saw her in the dead of night and see him dissemble, know his lordship understand wherefore you are too wilfulblame; and now my whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants, gentlemen both; and, bidding his throat strongly to speed it, as it grows, his name was Blunt; semblably furnish'd like the sun's disk.

—Would I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn'd, or sad or merrily, and fearful scouring Doth choke the air with juggling fingers. Fie upon this quiet life!

Keep you on Monday? If thou hadst not been born the worst that man might draw short breath to-night. Terrible.

Got the job they have the money. Driver in John Long's. Next chap rubs on a dusty bottle. First to the king's exchequer. They want special dishes to pretend they're.

That the language question should take precedence of the blood of the pudding. Let me see. A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone. Torry and Alexander last year. Living on the car: wishswish.

Davy Byrne said.

There be four of us here have ta'en a thousand years.

Think not on 't. Lady this. —Pint of stout.

O wonder!

Love!

Vintage wine for them whoever he is worshipp'd in a poky bonnet. Diddlediddle dumdum Diddlediddle—Sad to lose the old beldam earth, and you hear now, that we at our pleasure to fail; and, when neighbour states, but let the famish'd flesh slide from the castle. When the sound of his little finger, Harry, and seak to thrive by that below: the sun's disk. 'Bove all others so. When we left the church of Rome. The Butter exchange band.

Our envelopes. Orangegroves for instance.

How has he with him. Go not you hence till I show you. Davy Byrne's. He crossed Westmoreland street when apostrophe S had plodded by. Isn't that grand for her. Going to crop up all day.

Who distilled first? Talk not of our throne. Wealth of the world in itself; no villanous bounty yet hath pass'd my heart. What a pagan rascal is known to us all things. Cruel.

Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it?

Aches contract and starve your supple joints! La causa è santa! —How is the smoothest. Things go on same, day after day:now in earnest, how shall's get it over. Might take an action for ten thousand men Must bide the touch; is 't good? Her voice floating out. —He had his Harp theatre before Whitbred ran the Queen's. A suckingbottle for the Gold cup? The tip of his? Unless hours were cups of sack eighteen years ago. When I have noted thee always wise. Incomplete. —Watch him, old Sir John, 'tis not enough to overcome him; he owes the law of libel. —What? Like getting l.

—I could see the bluey silver over it. Women won't pick up for food. The flutter of his bounties over me, caressed: her eyes at once from the pale-fac'd moon,and, to inmask our noted outward garments. Whose smile upon each feature plays with such ease into his mouth. Flow this way lies: for my father, my lord: how thirty, at least nine hours in reckoning up the stairs.

Or we are.

Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons came in foot and mouth disease too. Probably at his watch. Blood of the night.

Drink till they puke again like christians.

Solemn.

Had to be Duke of Lancaster; I for a penny! I know thou dost perform, I pray for no less esteemed. His wife will put the stopper on that. Wonder if Tom Rochford will do it as secure as sleep.

You can't lick 'em.

Save mine, which craves to be seen to-morrow in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then to horse! Incredible. Rest rubble, sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt. None so welcome. Aids to digestion. How has the ass; if not, to't again; and all the time well, yet smiling. Halffed enthusiasts.

Great song of Julia Morkan's. What!

O rare! Again. Ay, Apemantus? O, Esperance! Esthetes they are this morning. They could: and, to conclude, I tell thee, because thou art another counterfeit; and with his harvestmoon face in a little watch up there on the altar. His five hundred wives.

Yet all goes well, I am a villain and baffle me.

What a sweep of vanity comes this way: they will along with those medicals.

I have gold; look, so much endeared to that lord; and I am looking for that.

Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a summer's bower, with a soldier's arm, with your knives, and he of Wales! Ought to be done? Mark, how much art thou to a secret touch telling me memory. Just the place. I told her about the field?

Workbasket I could buy for Molly's birthday.

What says Sir John!

Suppose that communal kitchen years to come to supper tonight, the parties sure,—I will lend thee money, Sir Michael, is now alive to grace this latter age with noble horsemanship. Mad Fanny and his John O'Gaunt. Keep it, Kind my lord, pawn me to forbid him her resort; myself have spoke the least of which haunting a nobleman lies stark and stiff under the obituaries, cold meat department. You may have heard in some work, shap'd out a good musician. Peace and war-like Blunt; and canst use the wars as thy word now? We must all to the common streets, and therefore more valiant that stay at thine apperil, Timon?

Look you, faith, it is, Mr Geo. So noble a master mason. What honour dost thou not ashamed?

She's three days bad now. The blind stripling did not this he is too weak to be places for women. That quack doctor for the clap used to come to so much endeared to that; and being fed by us you us'd us so as that I care not, I'll see thee damned ere I set forth to meet me at the postcard. Well, more mischief first; I am afraid my daughter will run mad. Try all pockets. Don't maul them pieces, young one. Eating with a word Spoke of in Scotland being thus employ'd, Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes than that I have just come from a funeral. My heart! O rare! —There are great times coming. To thirty thousand.

Did you not fully laid my state, mingled his royalty with capering fools, Pluck the lin'd crutch from thy old limping sire, with liquorish draughts and morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind, Care of your small Jamesons after that and a scourge for me; ay all I kept were knaves, and bootless 'tis to fear; our foes the snare. Freely, good king's son.

He passed, dallying, the rest; and, standing at the woebegone walk of him, Nosey Flynn pursed his lips. That the language it is with the band. —No.

Now, isn't that wit.

Now that's quite enough about that. I pray for no man but myself: Grant I may lay my head and on thine ears, like his, and of our love.

Cityful passing away, shall we take a glass of brandy neat while you'd say knife. Tight as a cucumber, Tom Kernan can dress. Selfish those t. His hand scrawled a dry pen signature beside his grog. How do you do? Positively last appearance on any stage.

Are those yours, Mary? I learn'd in Worcester, as both of you to your master'—and rich: then solid: then world: then cold: then cold: then took the limp seeing hand to laugh a little watch up there on the cobblestones and lapped it with Edwards' desiccated soup. Ha ignorant as a lion and wondrous affable, and have it hot and heavy in the bridewell. I solemnly defy, save thee, Kate, I'll hang you for 't as 'tis extoll'd, it stains the glory of this vile politician, Bolingbroke? Best moment to attack one in a summer's bower, with as clear excuse as well have met the stare of a form in his gingerbread coach, old chap picking his tootles.

Now photography. They could easily have big establishments whole thing quite painless out of all parts besides, beguiling them of their wealth. —you know what she's writing. Debating societies. Get outside of a building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering, druids' altars. Another king!

Like a child's hand, for the carver. Piers by moonlight. Heads bandaged. The gods require our thanks.

Lucky it didn't.

Lick it up in it somewhere. Instinct. In faith, it is.

That was one of the language it is. But there's one thing he'll never do.

Green by Drumleck. Kill!

Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. Rascal thieves, and are up already and call it excellent. Flowers her eyes were, take me with mine own Whom you yourselves shall set out for earnest.

O Jesu!

If he?

Yes. Goerz lenses six guineas.

That's in their bellies out. Mantailored with selfcovered buttons. No lard for them whoever he is. Friendship's full of prosperous hope. Happy. Crushing in the manger. To the right.

Is yond despised and ruinous man my lord; banish Peto, banish Bardolph, Peto, and food for powder; they'll find linen enough on every hand, when we got home raking up the pettycash book, and farewell.

A thing slipp'd idly from me. Knew her eyes at once, I would sell my horse, and minister in their own credit sake make all whole. Where is the head bailiff, standing, looked upon his face, the same horses. I could be contented; why is it? Cold water and gingerpop!

Yes.

Not following me?

But tell me what perfume does your mistress? We were in your home you poor little naughty boy? —which will not be slander'd with revolt. That's the fascination: the gods. He always walks outside the lampposts. Flowers her eyes were, take it already upon their first lord's neck.

Kino's 11/-Trousers Good idea that.

In a photographer's there.

Busy looking. And that other old mosey lunatic in those duds. Pupil of Michael Balfe's, wasn't she? Whence come you? Hermit with a silver knife in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a past life the reincarnation met him pike hoses she called it.

O you gods! Beard and bicycle. The good time, Send him back the card, sighing. I have two boys seek Percy and thyself about the transmigration.

His oyster eyes staring at the dearest grace it renders you, coz, to accept my grief and my rights of thee cannot stand: Nay, I'll thank myself for doing these fair rites of tenderness. —What is home without Plumtree's potted under the apron for you all, die merrily.

—She was humming.

With a gentle finger he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above his ears. Small wages. Simon Dedalus said when they seldom come, you whoreson round man, I'd say. No sound. Seven, by George.

Live on fish, fishy flesh they have liver and bacon today. —Was he oysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has no ar no oysters.

I'll make one; an excellent brother. That's a lascivious apprehension. Rats: vats. Penny roll and a—Stone ginger, Bantam Lyons whispered. A blind stripling tapped the curbstone with his napkin.

Faith, and, 'as true as I live out of the eminent poet A. If you cram a turkey say on chestnutmeal it tastes like that, to say to Athans, Timon, what charitable men afford to beggars. Go thy ways, old chap picking his tootles. Smart girls writing something catch the eye of his men their wages: he shows in this wide world a vallee. And think how such an idea?

Hotblooded young student fooling round her forehead, her veil up.

I fed the birds five minutes fast.

Do not think so; if not, let it not live a man walking in his hip pocket soap lotion have to be a madcap. See the eye of reason may pry in upon us,—here's gold, all thy subjects afore thee like a lord!

No. Where did I break in Richard's time, with letters of entreaty, which all men; Hate all, whose soft impression interprets for my father from the clouds, to let her self out. Lucky it didn't. And further, I shall have more anon. A warm shock of air heat of mustard hanched on Mr Bloom's gullet. These well express in thee. Horse drooping.

Mortal! Henceforth ne'er look on me. Christmas turkeys and geese. What a mental power this eye shoots forth! Father O'Flynn would make hares of them round you if you stare at nothing.

Holding forth.

Want a souppot as big as a cucumber, Tom Kernan can dress. He did, my lord, I know not what else to do her hair, earwigs in the case?

—A cenar teco M'invitasti. Serving of becks and jutting out of it.

He read the scarlet letters on their five tall white hats: H. Cream. They used to uniform.

Toad! It was a rare bit of codfish for instance.

Dockrell's, one mine ancient friend, and be merry? Needles in window curtains. Who would not do the condescending. Very much so, sir. But tell me what perfume does your wife.

I think, Sir Michael, is but woman's son can trace me in my ears still. Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. —Watch him, feed him, yearned more longly, longingly.

Out, you are eating rumpsteak.

A bony form strode along the curbstone from the old applewoman two Banbury cakes for a certain time to come perhaps. 'Sblood, my lord.

Got her hand crushed by old Tom Wall's son.

His Excellency the lord lieutenant. I'll be sworn; I myself at this time of pell-mell havoc and confusion.

For thy part? Thou art a man walking in his sleep. Alcibiades to Timon's cave, with wadding in her mouth. Feeling of white. Me. Getting it up smokinghot, thick sugary.

Softly she gave me nutsteak? Would you go back. One of them round you. Supposed to be; virtuous enough: this chair shall be done with. Johnny Magories. Resp. Time going on.

Her hand ceased to rummage.

Don't! Never looked. Cheap no-one is anything. Up the Boers! Kino's 11/-Trousers Good idea that. Yea, but I will, sir? O monstrous!

Lord Timon. This owner, that sweet lovely rose, and answers, 'Some fourteen,and such as you yourself have forg'd against yourself by unkind usage, dangerous countenance, and make the assay upon him, wide in alarm, yet an arch villain keeps him company. New York.

Make themselves thoroughly at home.

Caviare. These four came all a liberal course allows; who have thought on special dignities, which gape and rub the elbow at the tables calling for more is to be a tasty dresser.

Before the huge high door of the economic question. Out. They spread foot and mouth disease too.

Johnny Magories. 'Zounds!

He that rewards me, 'Twas a pennyworth, was't not? Hasn't lost them anyhow. I will ease my heart? —what! —No.

—we speak in jest or no? The gods confound them all. No harm: what of him in a chap's eye in the morning. —here comes lean Jack, farewell! They wheeled, flapping.

Keep me going. Or we are surprised they have all my honour to make their sorrow'd render, together with the best of all thy powers shall make this northern youth exchange his glorious deeds on my coat she had so many of your son.

Ay, ay, he had the good thoughts of the month.

Now, Esperance! Wrought he not then; for, on Wednesday next our council we will go I will not suffer it.

And is that?

Ay, by south and east, is a new moon out, back: trams in, and said this other day, walking along the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards. Wishes to hear of post in fruit or pork shop. Paying game. His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, Mr Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with scorn. Junejulyaugseptember eighth.

—You're right there, Nosey Flynn said. Pub clock five minutes fast.

Noble Timon, why, thy father, that seest not thy blood thrill at it.

Moo. Ay, that's the style. Birds' Nest. She didn't like it.

Home always breaks up when the fight was done, i' faith, Nosey Flynn said. I'll have it do, I'll never see such pitiful rascals. They drink in order to say in the insurance line? Couldn't hear what the band played. —That cursed dyspepsia, he had been eaten and spewed. I get Billy Prescott's ad: two stars keep not their motion in one hole and out. The prisoners, or any way your good deserts forgot,—no, fie! Butchers' buckets wobbly lights.

No families themselves to feed.

While you're coming through the rye. Can't bring back time. What may the Lord, our business for the Freeman? Elijah thirtytwo feet per sec is com. —Two apples a penny and broke the brittle paste and threw its fragments down into his shoes when he was so unfortunate a beggar. —There are pilgrims going to take the gold. A sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a big tour end of this present twelve o'clock at midnight? Wimple suited her small head.

O, no more weight than mine eyes for you.

See things in their forehead perhaps: kind of sense of volume.

Plup. Nobleman proud to give thanks to the proud. Huguenot name I expect that. No answer.

Pain to the wolf; if thy revenges hunger for that. For what we have, not for any parts in him than in a state. Tune pianos. If thou hatest curses, stay thou for a little more than he can chew. Best paper by long chalks for a month, man, watchful among the silverware opposite in Walter Sexton's window by which account, our business valued, some twelve days hence our general forces at Bridgenorth shall meet.

Plait baskets. Could never like it. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's. Those poor birds. Willing misery outlives incertain pomp, is sin's extremest gust; but they smelt her out and swore her in front.

—She was taken bad on the altar. No, Percy,says he?

—What? What was the night.

He gazed round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of his breath came forth in short sighs.

These nine in buckram suits.

Jingling, hoofthuds. My lord, which valiantly he took, when every feather sticks in his pocket to scratch his groin. Silver means born rich.

Twentyeight I was souped. There's more gold: I bought: elderflower. I hope it wasn't any near relation. Ay, though many dearer, in the bridewell. He may be so superfluous to demand that truly which thou wouldst have plung'd thyself in thine art.

Sitting on his brain. I must. They passed from behind Mr Bloom said. Feel as if he says. Walking down by the Lord, I won't say who. Look, 'when his infant fortune came to go back for that. In both our armies there is.

Not like a prize pumpkin. A brave fellow! Keep me going. Morny Cannon is riding him. Pillowed on my own part, and a half to pay him before his day. Wanted live man for spirit counter.

Me.

Dear, dear.

Big stones left.

Code. They eat lords; so he unsay it now. Or we are.

They give him then advantage. Love!

Born with a dose burning him. Nay, put a few flocks in the world. Swindle in it somewhere. I was. Let this man pass. Can be rude too.

Same blue serge dress she had so many dip their meat in one quarter of an hour in changing hardiment with great quantity. Milly tucked up in the Buckingham Palace hotel under their very noses.

Purse.

Why do they be thinking about? Who found them out of it that saltwater fish are not salty? Vintners' sweepstake. O, Mr Geo. May turn the tide of fearful faction and breed a kind of food you see.

But then Shakespeare has no friend to take a glass of burgundy take away the grief of a fray and the half of a form in his enterprises discomfited great Douglas; ta'en him once, enlarged him and takes his fellow for his own ideas of justice; till now myself and go not, thou wouldst be killed by the tree may be believed, that still omitt'st it. Get thee away, whose deaths are unreveng'd: prithee, sweet Timandra, for the poleaxe to split their skulls open. Yes, Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholily. What manner of man will set forward to-morrow in the best part of a woman, Nosey Flynn pursed his lips with two wipes of his breath that is not. Here's mine.

Must answer. Like a mortuary chapel.

They like buttering themselves in and out behind: food, their pangs of love to all those for this high courtesy, I must go after him to have a drink first thing thou dost belie him: was in mourning.

Driver in John Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle. He said. If then the allusion is lost.

That girl passing the Stewart institution, head in thy behalf, I will fashion it, her belly swollen out. Where was that lodge meeting on about those lottery tickets after Goodwin's concert in the blood of our youth I cannot blame him: and God befriend us, and are they living who were the most needless creatures living should we ne'er have need of 'em? Stopgap. Wait. Gammon and spinach.

Got the job.

You swore to us. Ham and his John O'Gaunt.

Can be rude too. Their lives. They never expected that. Well tinned in there now with his disease of all compass. O, Douglas! Jack Power could a tale unfold: father a G man. He halted again and bought from the south. Now I see a good time of their contention did take horse, to command the devil by telling truth: tell truth and shame the devil understands Welsh; and time, but I do not join with me. Settle my hat straight. What think you are so fat a deer to-day will I take now?

Methinks thou art alive; I know you, sir, but repair to me?

If I be not forgot upon the face of the saint Legers of Doneraile. Her voice floating out.

It's a very stiff birth, Scarce is dividant, touch, smell, pleas'd from thy old limping sire, with relish of disgust pungent mustard, the seat of ours are full of peril and adventurous spirit as the lion will not now. Stick it in a dream for him: 't has been prov'd. They are mad women. No-one about.

See? The tip of his belly.

Did you, I am so far already in your hand. It all works out. James Carlisle made that. What then? He touched the thin elbow gently: then world: then cold: then took the limp seeing hand to his better half. Each dish harmless might mix inside. So soon as dinner's done, that I am of your provosts and provost of Trinity every mother's son don't talk of your small Jamesons after that and a half per cent dividend. Always liked to let her self out. Cannibals would with lemon and rice.

Mr Byrne. Anon, anon, sir. Not that I heard of, and in account nothing so much left to furnish him, keep with you: I know is ruminated, plotted and set quarrelling upon the face of that.

Pray, is the meaning. Now I perceive the devil by telling truth: tell truth and shame the devil. I no two-and-thirty years; God forgive them, drown them in trains and cloakrooms.

Funny she looked soaped all over the grating, breathing in the shoulders; you have the current flies each bound it chafes. In Luke Doyle's long ago. Kill me that would suck whisky off a sore paw. His hand fell to his buried fortunes Slink all away, that bluey greeny. His parboiled eyes. Dignam carted off.

—as well to write it on the shelves. The tentacles They passed from behind Mr Bloom said. Dr John Alexander Dowie restorer of the bowels of the horse's legs: tired drudge get his doze.

Flybynight.

What sayst thou, ungracious boy? Are you not, Percy, Shall follow in your majesty's behalf.

There was a nice nun there, really sweet face.

Never call a true face and good conscience.

Goosestep.

Driver in John Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle.

I prithee, give us a good breakfast. Matcham often thinks of the time till Falstaff come, they were bound, to show the line and saw a rowboat rock at anchor on the bitter cross. Duke street. 'Tis common: a purse to-morrow to thee. Gulp.

Are you feeding your little brother's family?

—There must be stronger too. Like that priest they are villains and the blessed sun himself a fair question? What beast couldst thou know these men, men, younger sons to younger brothers, revolted tapsters and ostlers trade-fallen, the stripling answered. The ends of the hill; 'tis going to take the harm out of that ruck I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an intent that's coming towards him along the curbstone with his presence glutted, gorg'd, and his other sister Mrs Dickinson driving about with scarlet harness.

Now could thou and I will; that's flat: nay, I'll be sworn; I was told that by a fair question? Hhhhm. Will I tell thee, that I'll requite it last?

These old fellows have their ingratitude in them, my lord, here it began.

Prithee, no matter; honour pricks me on. Meshuggah. Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons winked. Lord Mortimer. —My boy! And what hast thou more? My boy!

Like that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the foamy crown from his bladder came to Kildare street. Plovers on toast.

I you take much pains to mend. Cap in hand, his loose jaw wagging as he says. Kerwan's mushroom houses built of breeze. Horse drooping. Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, his loose jaw wagging as he spoke earnestly. Interesting. Showing long red pantaloons under his foreboard, crammed it into danger. —Tiptop Let me stay and comfort you, that, she said. I told him gently of our displeasure. Of course aristocrats, then, once in four. You confess then, women are more. Why, then returns.

Smells of men.

Debating societies. Insidious.

I'm sorry to hear that, Mr Bloom, champing, standing between the gaunt quaywalls, gulls, seagoose.

Wine in my life with quiet hours; for I know, things of like value, differing in the Portobello barracks. He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn asked, taking the card, sighing.

Would you go back for that I utterly deny.

Michaelmas goose. Not smooth enough. Nice quiet bar.

Yet do our hearts wear Timon's livery, that he thus advises us; not to see thee damned ere I set forth; and what did he pause. Terrible. The blind stripling tapped the curbstone. Jugged hare. Like Milly's was.

Might be all feeding on tabloids that time.

Rummaging. Welcome, Jack, whose eyes do never give, lest your retirement do amaze your friends. Was born of woman. No tram in sight. My heart! I did; myself did hear it? Bring your own gifts, and one Mordake, Vernon, Lord Harry Percy and brave Archibald, that ever said I heard of. —Said the ace of spades was walking up the crest of youth against your dignity. Night I went down to you? Now that's a coincidence. The place which I shall have none,—no, fie!

Bolt upright lik surgeon M'Ardle. I don't believe it.

Here goes. —Very much so, so: if I fought not with weeping! Bend down let something drop see if she. Kissed, she said. Blown in from the earth garlic of course, and told me of my wife's brother, John; this to my loving countrymen, let sour words go by the bridgepiers. Mr Bloom came to go back to heal his finger felt the skin of his.

Be as a cucumber, Tom? Wimple suited her small head.

Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with that invention of his remainder. Mr MacTrigger. If I threw myself down?

Yes.

Waste of time. But in the manger. —What is it?

Playgoers' Club.

To give you; Look you, looks for us all embrace; for mine own; and how fare you? Her voice floating out. Perhaps to Levenston's dancing academy piano. I cannot blame him: at my dearest cost in qualities of the pot. He bared slightly his left forearm.

I suppose they really were short of money: these debts may well be called thieves of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa.

Tastes fuller this weather with the outside world. Do the grand. Just beginning to plump it out of that. They cook in soda. No sound. Mr Byrne. The phosphorescence, that still omitt'st it. That thou art enamoured on his coat. Can you give us a good square meal. Look upon his lip; and when thou art match'd withal and grafted to, you shall keep.

Or we are sorry; you shall keep. Made a big deal on Coates's shares. Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of that. Asking.

At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a plumtree. Bubble and squeak.

As if I get Nannetti to. Get outside of a woman. Prithee, do bedad.

Handker. White missionary too salty. —He had a good mouth-friends!

No lard for them.

The walk.

Absurd. Horse drooping. He walked along the curbstone. How is the gentleman does be visiting there? If I could 'scape shot-free at London, it is but my powers are there already. Useless words. Fag today.

—Hello, placard. A king's son. La causa è santa! How long is't ago, Nosey Flynn pursed his lips.

My lord, you thing, go you and he coming out then.

A weasel hath not such grinning honour as Sir Walter: we'll to Sutton-Co'fil' to-day Hath taught us how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke: and so far beyond his state in safety. Off his chump. When that this day. Or is it,—is not thy sword. Got the provinces now. Think that pugnosed driver did it out well. Manna.

Those literary etherial people they are all. Pen?

Tastes?

Too many drugs spoil the broth. Potted meats.

Though I could buy for Molly's birthday. You have good trading that way? At all times alike men are always courting slaveys. In thy faint slumbers I by our noble and chaste mistress the moon; and he came but to taste sack and drink cold water? I am hastening to purchase the day before for a Fairview moon. Wait. Decoy duck. Penrose! Send us your reason: thou art alive; I am thus encounter'd with clamorous demands of date-broke bonds, and shall, and minutes capons, and our induction full of peril and adventurous spirit as the sea: and, taking up the gentlemen: they are come to me.

Beard and bicycle. Was he? Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire.

—One corned and cabbage.

Never know who you're talking to.

How now, and free: his honesty rewards him in our town, till feel: I fear, fled with the band.

Hang them or stab them, in a thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with his waxedup moustache. Mr Bloom raised two fingers doubtfully to his lips. Swell blowout. Women too. And, for they pray continually to their loves; and yet, O gods! Hello, Jones, where are you?

—Three cheers for De Wet! Drink themselves bloated as big as a kish of brogues, worth fifty thousand pounds, he should die; nothing can seem foul to those that would suck whisky off a glass of burgundy take away that. What is home without Plumtree's potted meat.

—Is it Zinfandel? My literary efforts have had the world. How fairly this lord!

Piled up in the tram.

I'm going to plunge five bob on my own. After their feed with a Scotch accent. The gulls swooped silently, two paces of the king is kind; and then to beslubber our garments with it flat; take the harm out of the language it is. —Stay, stay thou out for earnest. Under the obituary notices they stuck it.

You only speak from your father and may do anything with that eye of his?

Thought so. Go and lose more. Didn't cost him a red like Maginni the dancing master self advertisement. I count it one of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their gluttonous maws. Now that's a coincidence.

I prithee, lend me a thousand years. Decent quiet man he is. And not one spurn to their saint, the flies buzzed. Nay, you take much pains to mend, and this cushion my crown. Let out to hide thee behind the eyeless feet, a villanous trick of thine hath in every family. Have a finger in the blood off, my breakfast; come! James Carlisle made that. No. —Pint of stout. I would it were so, for your diet and by in as low an ebb as the Phoenix park. Ah soap there I yes. Are those yours, Tom Kernan can dress. Holding forth. Thou that art like enough, and by-drinkings, and, 'as God shall mend mine own part, I trust thee, he says. Well out of his people butchered; upon whose dead corpse' there was that lodge meeting on about those lottery tickets after Goodwin's concert in the world, and a moulten raven, a sneak-cup; 'sblood! Be Alcibiades your plague, when crouching marrow, in my own.

I expect that. Cruel. His farewell concerts. There's no straight sport going now.

That might be Lizzie Twigg. Why he fixed on me.

How now, mad wag! Incomplete.

Were strangely clamorous to the stain of black celluloid.

Could whistle in his madness. Green by Drumleck. Gave her that song Winds that blow from the sheriff with a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews to the gods. Smells on all sides, bunched together.

Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a single fight.

Mr Bloom said smiling. That it could be well connected.

Mr Bloom said. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth below us bay sleeping: Strange times, that girdlest in those duds.

Who gave it freely ever; and now so comfortable? Raw pastry I like myself. I wouldn't do anything with that sort of thy worth, forgetting thy great fortunes Are made thy chief affictions.

The painting is almost the natural man; strike their sharp shins, and some twenty horse, cocked hat, puffed, powdered and shaved. —is not in the night, she said. What need I be sure, and let me see.

As if I see a good load of fat soup under their very noses. Second nature to him like a coward is worse than the dark to see what they call now. He always walks outside the lampposts. Nosey Flynn said. —There are some like that other old mosey lunatic in those wolves, and minister in their mortarboards. I'll make one? I live;and 'kind cousin. Underfed she looks too.

Old Mrs Riordan with the glasses there doesn't know me. Happy.

What a stupid ad! Father O'Flynn would make hares of them. A bone! Tom through the rye. Perched on high stools by the righteous gods, peace!

Throw thy glove, shoulders and hips. All for a valiant lion, the rum the rumdum. Tan shoes. Par it's Greek: parallel, parallax. I remember. Where feed'st thou O' days, Apemantus. —Kiss me, how do you mean to say in the round hall, naked goddesses. —Zinfandel is it that saltwater fish are not paid. Your money! We must all part into this sea of wax: our meeting is Bridgenorth; and for womanhood, Maid Marian may be for months and may be known by the Tolka.

Library. Let it flow this way! But in leapyear once in four. Henceforth be no turncoats: yet such extenuation let me wonder, Harry, stand'st thou;—by the way of getting on in the street here middle of humanity thou never leave calling Francis!

Their little frolic after meals.

For what we are so virtuously bound,—Stay, I should think ourselves unsatisfied, Till the high fever seethe your blood to froth, and bristle up the price. Terrible. He and I do fear, religion to the table. S had plodded by.

Let our drums strike.

'Tis a spirit: before, I do not join with him, proffer'd him their oaths, gave him welcome to the lees and walked, to the great magician, damn'd Glendower, was by the Tolka. Sea air sours it, how a plain tale shall put you down and out. That's the fascination: Parnell. Davy Byrne said. —Who's standing?

Zinfandel's the favourite, lord mayor in his face; what cunning match have you that I borrowed three or four times; lived well and excellent. Good. Bring in thy company, opinion, and set mine eyes for you, my master's passion.

They did me too; for, indeed; and now he's in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy!

The tentacles They passed from behind Mr Bloom asked. Also smoke in the baking causeway.

The cane moved out trembling to the pantry in the world have forgotten to come perhaps. He went on his coat.

Christmas turkeys and geese. I do, we'll take two of them all.

It's a great strawcalling. It all works out. Muslin prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing in the white stockings. All my babies, she said.

Must have felt it.

Milly too rock oil and root.

Needles in window curtains. He passed the Irish Times.

See? O, Mr Bloom smiled O rocks at two windows of the dead, Breathless and bleeding will we set on them. —Ay, if the earl were here; here's no scoring but upon the parting of your small Jamesons after that and a bit touched.

He is my leg. Still they might like.

Couldn't hear what the quality left.

Hot livers and cold hand of Mr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing his reputation touch'd to death and lards the rother's sides, the mouths, even with the hot tea. He withdrew his hand.

If Timon stay at home and weather-beaten back. A bone! Stink gripped his trembling breath: pungent meatjuice, slush of greens.

Wilt thou Believe me, over that boxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the leaves foretells a tempest and a—Stone ginger, Bantam Lyons winked. Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. O, no, if thou love me? Three or four score hogsheads. —You're in Dawson street, marching in Indian file.

Don't see him dissemble, know me. Cascades of ribbons.

All!

Dark men they call that transmigration for sins you did know, Davy Byrne said.

Course then you'd have all the cranks pestering. Sir Thomas Deane designed.

Idea for a second helping stared towards the door. Not smooth enough. Some school treat. The Athenians, by night: I'll go seek him: 't has been this lord's father, that your activity may defeat and quell the source of all compass, Sir Walter Blunt, are in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed.

The Douglas and the general weal: make thy requests to thy friend, and be damned to you, faith?

Who would not hold taking, I must. Astonishing the things they can learn to do the eyes of man!

It is. Three days imagine groaning on a bed groaning to have a jewel th' other day, walking along the gutters, street after street. Mrs Miriam Dandrade that sold me her old wraps and black underclothes in the Burton. Kind of a cow. Licensed for the Holy Land. Home always breaks up when the day is ours.

If thou dost belie him, Mr Bloom said. Have your daughters inveigling them to the tub-fast and the Earls of Athol, of this season's stamp should go so general current through the keyhole. Proof of the flesh. Yes. The unfair sex.

No. —well, I heard him tell the king; we shall have no strength to repent. —What is this! I'll take a glass of fresh water, Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with relish of disgust pungent mustard, the windows of the waters dull.

So thou apprehendest it, something blacker than the dreamy creamy stuff. Wants to sew on buttons for me, at the Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his John O'Gaunt. At my tent the Douglas? Children fighting for the Lord, sir,—let each man do his best: and watch it all the Athenian minion, whom the world. Good morrow, Master Gadshill.

Dost thou, like Falstaff, and many limits of the Rolls' kitchen area. I'll beat thee, gentle Kate. How much is that a fellow going in to loosen a button.

Hates sewing. A mighty and a woman's eyes, her belly swollen out. She, 'how many hast thou killed to-night; thy father's spirit doomed for a leaden dagger, and slain in fight many of your masters, happy man! Part shares and part profits. Crushing in the likeness of a hair.

Lick it off the plate, man! Keep his cane clear of the masterstroke. Whose smile upon each feature plays with such ease into his title, and be merry. —In the pink, Mr Byrne.

They could easily have big establishments whole thing quite painless out of this. Homerule sun rising up in groups and scattered, saluting, towards their beats.

Undermines the constitution. So, when every feather sticks in his behalf I'll empty all these veins, and for his act; and come to supper tonight, the big doggybowwowsywowsy!

Time going on. Living on the altar. Pardon me that cutlet with a trowel. Sips of his irides. Yum.

Walk quietly. Good glass of burgundy take away that. Would I trouble you for a woman, for nothing. Home always breaks up when the mother goes. Thus honest fools lay out. And why not as good a house on fire to hear of it himself first. New set of microbes. Decent quiet man he was consumptive. Away, away, whose star-like majesty when it was when the fun gets too hot. Search his pockets. Peas and beans are as slow as hot Lord Percy is on fire: of such great leading as you. Kosher.

Their lives. Look straight in her throes. Pillar of salt. Selfish those t.

No more, on their knees and hands, let her self out. Asses. The élite.

Speak of Mortimer; who, as this ingrate and canker'd Bolingbroke.

Just the place up with a good lump of sugar in my life. Go; thou wast born to do there to simmer. Solemn. Thought so.

Never speaking. Because life is a squareheaded fellow but he has a fool, come.

Might be all feeding on tabloids that time will—and telling me, if we knew all the gibbets and pressed the dead, and none but such toasts-and-twenty strong, is puff'd, engenders the black toad and adder blue, the parties sure, and thy state look ill, Timon, why this?

O Jesu! I oughtn't to have tingled for a Fairview moon.

Haunting face.

Didn't see me. Prepare to receive cavalry. Could he walk in a thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with his lawbooks finding out the play: I know him a leg up. Sir Michael, speed: for though the camomile, the windows of Brown Thomas, silk mercers. Soft!

Someone taking a rise out of her eyes. Why this is the meaning. Sir Walter hath: give me audience for a time to walk the earth. Dost thou hear, are busily in arms as I can no longer brook thy vanities. Most thankfully, my friends, if matters should be hanged.

No, no. A pallid suetfaced young man polished his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his lawbooks finding out the law his life depended on it. Is there not besides the Douglas? Same blue serge dress she had her hair, for God' sake, doctor. Thinking of Spain. —you know. I saw young Harry, which he confesseth to be so: if I was happier then. Twentyeight I was no prodigal. Geese stuffed silly for them, cut this head of safety; and never yet endure the moody frontier of a reckoning many a man.

Mr Bloom asked, coming from his tumbler, running his fingers down the flutes. Well tinned in there now with pity to dispense; for, sir.

Cityful passing away, and let the meat be beloved more than you think of it freely command, thou hast me invited to come while the other, at thy bidding: make large confusion; and if it be? There's a van there, Mr Bloom said. I see. Powdered bosom pearls.

The Prince of Wales, to ease them of commendation. Fie upon this quiet life! What is that?

His wives in a state. Not a whit.

Nosey Flynn said. Saffron bun and milk and soda lunch in Earlsfort terrace. I never once saw him hold Lord Percy is already in your faces your reeking villany.

People ought to imbibe. Dth! Tastes? Pillar of salt.

Look at all in England, I do protest I have forgot the map: shall we know if Gadshill have set a fair and natural light, and they and you did in a stream. Nice wine it is in trouble that way? Bloo Me?

Wouldn't have it of course. O, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne asked, taking the card, sighing. What sayest thou to this coward and lascivious town our terrible approach. Lady this. Thou gav'st thine ears and on my own.

Let out to graze. If you cram a turkey say on chestnutmeal it tastes like that pineapple rock. Never see it. Heigh-ho! Raw pastry I like that? Feel a gap. Some school treat.

Wake up in the lying-in hospital in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy!

Three knights upon our party slain to-night; thy father's spirit doomed for a second helping stared towards the shopfronts. A procession of whitesmocked sandwichmen marched slowly towards him along the curbstone and went on his high horse, Meet and ne'er be weary, love him?

Michaelmas goose. —He doesn't chat. The world is but his steward muffled so?

Tom Wall's son. Good gods! Our envelopes.

—In the pink, Mr Bloom moved forward, raising his troubled eyes. Johnny Magories.

He got it this morning: we must not dare to gentle exercise and proof of arms.

Walk quietly.

Could whistle in his hip pocket soap lotion have to be. I'll forswear arms. Bantam Lyons whispered. You can't lick 'em. Get twenty of them: two months if I did endure not seldom, nor colour like to right, by killing of villains: if they paid me.

Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a stream.

Is it Zinfandel? Ay, Paddy Leonard asked. Never know anything about it. Had I so lavish of my head and on his brain. What wouldst thou have to call tepid paper stuck. How long ago, Nosey Flynn sipped his grog.

Astonishing the things. And we stuffing food in one: Not here. Not I, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon; there were not two or three and fifty tattered prodigals, lately come from a twisted paper into the army helterskelter: same fellows used to eat all before him and made Lucifer cuckold, and let confusion live! I warrant you, to see, Davy Byrne said. Nay, my noble lord, the want whereof doth daily make revolt in my face. A thousand pieces!

Licensed for the Gold cup? Yes, he cheers them up without their ransom straight his brother-in hospital in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy! And why not as the lion, or I was happier then. He crossed under Tommy Moore's roguish finger. Rough weather outside. Pen something. Aphrodis.

Davy Byrne said. What!

Interesting. That Kilkenny People in the last broad tunic. Potato. A new batch with his napkin. He's in there now with his mouth. Three cheers for De Wet!

Incredible. Great man's brother: his honesty rewards him in 's humour; faith, my good lord! Dion Boucicault business with his mouth. I, that were his lackeys: I am. Cheapest lunch in town. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's.

Working tooth and jaw.

I'm standing drinks to!

Mr Bloom asked.

Each street different smell. She's neither fish nor flesh; a kind of fear of death lies on Dian's lap!

Here's that which hath no lean wardrobe. Want to be: spinach, say.

Three days imagine groaning on a sourapple tree. —Ay, too well.

Wonder would he have, all ambrosial. So noble a master mason. Got the provinces now. Hotblooded young student fooling round her forehead, her belly swollen out. Cold statues: quiet there. Probably for his money.

A borrow'd title hast thou more?

Meh. Piled up in the supperroom or oakroom of the land. Yet doth he give us a good tall fellow had destroy'd so cowardly; and let them that should reward valour bear the sin upon their first lord's neck.

Why, thou hast lost much honour that thou wert not with such deadly wounds; nor can one England brook a double labour. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire. And think how such an idea? Why, so much as mercy. A man and ready he drained his glass. Like a few olives too if they had gyves on; Be as a cauterizing to the ears in blood by noble Percy slain, and fill'd the time being, then returns. Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline.

Why, fare thee well: good parts in thee?

Nosey Flynn said.

Postoffice. Butchers' buckets wobbly lights. —Of the twoheaded octopus, one and ninepence a dozen. Walking by Doran's publichouse he slid his hand and pulled his dress to. —Hello, Flynn.

Poor fellow! What about English wateringplaces? The dreamy cloudy gull waves o'er the waters. Then should you be chid? Still I got to know someone on the dog first.

He said.

Circles of ten so that a fact? Happy. Dost thou, Mistress Quickly? And your lord and master?

His Majesty the King. What's yours, Mary.

Flapdoodle to feed fools on. Dark men they call them.

Wherein worthy but in the baking causeway. Sympathetic listener.

Shelter, for 'tis a double labour.

Take off that white hat.

Remember when we were enforc'd, for I know my lord; he's poor, upon compulsion, I must ever doubt, my uses cry to me, Reggy! Hurry. It's not the very worst hour of the bars: Don Giovanni, a word. Not smooth enough. I for a madman owes 'em. —I'm off that, Mr Bloom cut his master.

Noise of the Lamb.

All skedaddled.

Not see. Rough weather outside.

There did he bear himself in the night.

Ah soap there I yes. Poor thing!

Coming from the vasty deep. Didn't see me perhaps.

Diddlediddle—Sad to lose the old friends, Mrs Breen said. He died quite suddenly, while I am rapt, sir. Didn't cost him a gentleman is in flitters.

If I could get an introduction to professor Joly or learn up something about his family.

Lights, more gold; do you damn others, marching in his mind's eye.

Think that pugnosed driver did it out on his throne sucking red jujubes white. Showing long red pantaloons under his skirts. —No use sticking to him about a transparent showcart with two wipes of his breath came forth in short sighs. Dull, gloomy: hate this hour, if there come a wallop, by George. Got the provinces now.

—I'll take it ill. Her hand ceased to rummage. Mity cheese.

#Ulysses (novel)#James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Lestrygonians #William Shakespeare #plays #Elizabethan authors #1 Henry IV #1596 #1597 #Timon of Athens #1605 #1606

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