the bowling green because I sailed inside him. Pure fluke of mine : the bias.
Why he took such a rooted dislike to me. Hate at first sight. Molly and Floey
Dillon linked under the lilactree, laughing. Fellow always like that, mortified if
women are by.
Got a dinge in the side of his hat. Carriage probably.
— Excuse me, sir, Mr Bloom said beside them.
They stopped.
— Your hat is a little crushed, Mr Bloom said, pointing.
John Henry Menton stared at him for an instant without moving.
— There, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also.
John Henry Menton took off his hat, bulged out the dinge and smoothed
the nap with care on his coatsleeve. He clapped the hat on his head again.
— It’s all right now, Martin Cunningham said.
John Henry Menton jerked his head down in acknowledgment.
— Thank you, he said shortly.
They walked on towards the gates. Mr Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind a
few paces so as not to overhear. Martin laying down the law. Martin could wind
a sappyhead like that round his little finger without his seeing it.
Oyster eyes. Never mind. Be sorry after perhaps when it dawns on him.
Get the pull over him that way.
Thank you. How grand we are this morning!