The accumulation of the anno Domini.

Sorry, Mr Bloom said.

He went to the door and, holding it ajar, paused. J. J. O’Molloy slapped the heavy pages over. The noise of two shrill voices, a mouthorgan, echoed in the bare hallway from the newsboys squatted on the doorsteps:

We are the boys of Wexford

Who fought with heart and hand.

EXIT BLOOM

I’m just running round to Bachelor’s walk, Mr Bloom said, about this ad of Keyes’s.

Want to fix it up. They tell me he’s round there in Dillon’s.

He looked indecisively for a moment at their faces.