Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls.
He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried
with crustcrumbs, fried hencod’s roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton
kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly, righting
her breakfast things on the humpy tray. Gelid light and air were in the kitchen
but out of doors gentle summer morning everywhere. Made him feel a bit
peckish.
The coals were reddening.
Another slice of bread and butter : three, four : right. She didn’t like her
plate full. Right. He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set
it sideways on the fire. It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. Cup of
tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the table
with tail on high.
— Mkgnao!
— O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire.
The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table,
mewing. Just how she stalks over my writingtable. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr.
Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly, the lithe black form. Clean to see :
the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the
green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his knees.
— Milk for the pussens, he said.
— Mrkgnao! the cat cried.
They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we
understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Wonder
what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me.