BELLO: (With bobbed hair, purple gills, fat moustache rings round his shaven mouth, in mountaineer’s puttees, green silverbuttoned coat, sport skirt and alpine hat with moorcock’s feather, his hands stuck deep in his breeches pockets, places his heel on her neck and grinds it in.) Footstool!

Feel my entire weight. Bow, bondslave, before the throne of your despot’s glorious heels so glistening in their proud erectness.

BLOOM: (Enthralled, bleats.) I promise never to disobey.

BELLO: (Laughs loudly.) Holy smoke! You little know what’s in store for you. I’m the Tartar to settle your little lot and break you in! I’ll bet Kentucky cocktails all round I shame it out of you, old son.