Ulysses page-by-page: Page 70 (5.65-102) "Answered... those patch"

Friday, May 30, 2014

Page 70 (5.65-102) "Answered... those patch"

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Delaney: [198] [199] [200] Useen: [] [*]

Delaney: [198]

Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade. Where's old Tweedy's regiment? Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he's a grenadier. Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. Redcoats.

Too showy. That must be why the women go after them. Uniform. Easier to enlist and drill. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell street at night: disgrace to our Irish capital.

MaudG on RDF (handbill)

Griffith's paper is on the same tack now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire.

halfseas

Half baked they look: hypnotised like. Eyes front. Mark time. Table: able. Bed: ed. The King's own. Never see him dressed up as a fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes.

Delaney: [199]

He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if that would mend matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger felt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks. Women will pay a lot of heed, I don't think. His fingers drew forth the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something pinned on: photo perhaps. Hair? No.
M'Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate company when you.

1909 map
StreetView now
M'Coy in Dubliners
Mac vs Mc vs M
(supposedly based on Charles Chance: 1901? 1911?)

— Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?
— Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular.
— How's the body?
— Fine. How are you?
— Just keeping alive, M'Coy said.
His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect:
— Is there any... no trouble I hope? I see you're...
— O no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today.
— To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time?
A photo it isn't. A badge maybe.
— E... eleven, Mr Bloom answered.
— I must try to get out there, M'Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only heard it last night. Who was telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy?
— I know.

Delaney: [200]

Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the door of the Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She stood still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her, searched his pockets for change. Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless stand of her with her hands in those patch