The harlot’s cry from street to street

Shall weave old England’s windingsheet.

His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which he halted.

A merchant, Stephen said, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or gentile, is he not?

They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy said gravely. And you can see the darkness in their eyes. And that is why they are wanderers on the earth to this day.

On the steps of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their gemmed fingers. Gabble of geese. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats. Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these