THE NYMPH: (Coyly, through parting fingers.) There? In the open air?

THE YEWS: (Sweeping downward.) Sister, yes. And on our virgin sward.

THE WATERFALL:

Poulaphouca Poulaphouca

Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca.

THE NYMPH: (With wide fingers.) O, infamy!

BLOOM: I was precocious. Youth. The fauna. I sacrificed to the god of the forest. The flowers that bloom in the spring. It was pairing time. Capillary attraction is a natural phenomenon. Lotty Clarke, flaxenhaired, I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor papa’s operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly.

She rolled downhill at Rialto bridge to tempt me with her flow of animal spirits. She climbed their crooked tree and I... A saint couldn’t