Ulysses by James Joyce Chapter 4 Page 33

Her spoon ceased to stir up the sugar. She gazed straight before her, inhaling through her arched nostrils.

There’s a smell of burn, she said. Did you leave anything on the fire?

The kidney! he cried suddenly.

He fitted the book roughly into his inner pocket and, stubbing his toes against the broken commode, hurried out towards the smell, stepping hastily down the stairs with a flurried stork’s legs. Pungent smoke shot up in an angry jet from a side of the pan.

By prodding a prong of the fork under the kidney he detached it and turned it turtle on its back. Only a little burnt. He tossed it off the pan on to a plate and let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it.