(Widening her slip to screen her.) She’s not here.
(Closing her eyes.) She’s not here.
(Hiding her with her gown.) She didn’t mean it, Mr Bello. She’ll be good,
Don’t be too hard on her, Mr Bello. Sure you won’t, ma’amsir.
(Coaxingly.) Come, ducky dear. I want a word with you, darling, just to
administer correction. Just a little heart to heart talk, sweety. (Bloom puts out
her timid head.) There’s a good girly now. (Bello grabs her hair violently and
drags her forward.) I only want to correct you for your own good on a soft safe
spot. How’s that tender behind? O, ever so gently, pet. Begin to get ready.
(Fainting.) Don’t tear my...
(Savagely.) The nosering, the pliers, the bastinado, the hanging hook,
the knout I’ll make you kiss while the flutes play like the Nubian slave of
old. You’re in for it this time. I’ll make you remember me for the balance of
your natural life. (His forehead veins swollen, his face congested.) I shall sit on your
ottomansaddleback every morning after my thumping good breakfast of
Matterson’s fat ham rashers and a bottle of Guinness’s porter. (He belches.) And
suck my thumping good Stock Exchange cigar while I read the Licensed
Victualler’s Gazette. Very possibly I shall have you slaughtered and skewered
in my stables and enjoy a slice Of you with crisp crackling from the baking
tin basted and baked like sucking pig with rice and lemon or currant sauce.
It will hurt you.
(He twists her arm. Bloom squeaks, turning turtle.)
Don’t be cruel, nurse! Don’t!