as bad as old Antonio. He left me on my ownio. Pirouette! The Mater Misericordiae. Eccles street. My house down there. Big place. Ward for incurables there. Very encouraging. Our Lady’s Hospice for the dying. Deadhouse handy underneath. Where old Mrs Riordan died. They look terrible the women. Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the spoon. Then the screen round her bed for her to die. Nice young student that was dressed that bite the bee gave me.

He’s gone over to the lying-in hospital they told me. From one extreme to the other.

The carriage galloped round a corner: stopped.

What’s wrong now?

A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking