coals of fire on his head-much in the same way as the fabled ass’s kick. Looking
back now in a retrospective kind of arrangement, all seemed a kind of
dream. And the coming back was the worst thing you ever did because it
went without saying you would feel out of place as things always moved with
the times. Why, as he reflected, Irishtown Strand, a locality he had not been
in for quite a number of years, looked different somehow since, as it happened,
he went to reside on the north side. North or south however, it was just the
wellknown case of hot passion, pure and simple, upsetting the applecart with
a vengeance and just bore out the very thing he was saying, as she also was
Spanish or half so, types that wouldn’t do things by halves, passionate abandon
of the south, casting every shred of decency to the winds.
— Just bears out what I was saying, he, with glowing bosom said to Stephen. And, if I don’t greatly mistake, she was Spanish too.
— The king of Spain’s daughter, Stephen answered, adding something or other rather muddled about farewell and adieu to you Spanish onions and the first land called the Deadman and from Ramhead to Scilly was so and so many...
— Was she? Bloom ejaculated surprised, though not astonished by any means. I never heard that rumour before. Possible, especially there it was, as she lived there. So, Spain.
Carefully avoiding a book in his pocket Sweets of, which reminded him by the by of that Capel street library book out of date, he took out his pocketbook and, turning over the various contents rapidly, finally he...
— Do you consider, by the by, he said, thoughtfully selecting a faded photo which he laid on the table, that a Spanish type?
Stephen, obviously addressed, looked down on the photo showing a large sized lady, with her fleshy charms on evidence in an open fashion, as she was in the full bloom of womanhood, In evening dress cut ostentatiously low for the occasion to give a liberal display of bosom, with more than vision of breasts, her full lips parted, and some perfect teeth, standing near, ostensibly with gravity, a piano, on the rest of which was In old Madrid, a ballad, pretty in its way, which was then all the vogue. Her (the lady’s) eyes, dark, large, looked at Stephen, about to smile about something to be admired, Lafayette of Westmoreland street, Dublin’s premier photographic artist, being responsible for the esthetic execution.
— Mrs Bloom, my wife the prima donna, Madam Marion Tweedy, Bloom indicated. Taken a few years since. In or about ’96. Very like her then.
