MARION: Ti trema un poco il cuore?

(In disdain she saunters away, plump as a pampered pouter pigeon, humming the duet from Don Giovanni.)

BLOOM: Are you sure about that Voglio?

I mean the pronunciati...

(He follows, followed by the sniffing terrier. The elderly bawd seizes his sleeve, the bristles of her chinmole glittering.)

THE BAWD: Ten shillings a maidenhead. Fresh thing was never touched. Fifteen. There’s no-one in it only her old father that’s dead drunk.

(She points. In the gap of her dark den furtive, rainbedraggled, Bridie Kelly stands.)

BRIDIE: Hatch street. Any good in your mind?