(Her sowcunt barks.) Fbhracht!

BLOOM: (Contemptuously.) Clean your nailless middle finger first, your bully’s cold spunk is dripping from your cockscomb. Take a handful of hay and wipe yourself.

BELLA: I know you, canvasser! Dead cod!

BLOOM: I saw him, kipkeeper!

Pox and gleet vendor!

BELLA: (Turns to the piano.) Which of you was playing the dead march from Saul?

ZOE: Me. Mind your cornflowers. (She darts to the piano and bangs chords on it with crossed arms.) The cat’s ramble through the slag. (She glances back.) Eh? Who’s making love to my sweeties? (She darts back to the table.) What’s