without a stitch on her, exposing her person, open to all comers, fair field and no favour.

The noblest, the truest, says he. And he’s gone, poor little Willy, poor little Paddy Dignam.

And mournful and with a heavy heart he bewept the extinction of that beam of heaven.

Old Garryowen started growling again at Bloom that was skeezing round the door.

Come in, come on, he won’t eat you, says the citizen.

So Bloom slopes in with his cod’s eye on the dog and he asks Terry was Martin Cunningham there.

O, Christ M’Keown, says Joe, reading one of the letters. Listen to this, will you?

And he starts reading out one.