Ulysses by James Joyce Chapter 1 Page 43

He stood up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his gown, saying resignedly:

Mulligan is stripped of his garments.

He emptied his pockets on to the table.

There’s your snotrag, he said.

And putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them, chiding them, and to his dangling watchchain. His hands plunged and rummaged in his trunk while he called for a clean handkerchief. God, we’ll simply have to dress the character. I want puce gloves and green boots. Contradiction. Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. Mercurial Malachi. A limp black missile flew out of his talking hands.

And there’s your Latin quarter hat, he said.