Page:Ulysses, 1922.djvu/67

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Greville Arms on Saturday. There is a young student comes here some even-
ings named Bannon his cousins or something are big swells he sings Boylan’s
(I was on the pop of writing Blazes Boylan’s) song about those seaside girls.
Tell him silly Milly sends my best respects. Must now close with fondest love.
       Your fond daughter,
       P. S. Excuse bad writing, am in a hurry. Byby.

       Fifteen yesterday. Curious, fifteenth of the month too. Her first birthday
away from home. Separation. Remember the summer morning she was born,
running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Jolly old woman. Lots
of babies she must have helped into the world. She knew from the first poor
little Rudy wouldn’t live. Well, God is good, sir. She knew at once. He
would be eleven now if he had lived.
       His vacant face stared pitying at the postscript. Excuse bad writing. Hurry.
Piano downstairs. Coming out of her shell. Row with her in the XL Café
about the bracelet. Wouldn’t eat her cakes or speak or look. Saucebox. He
sopped other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece after piece of kidney.
Twelve and six a week. Not much. Still, she might do worse. Music hall
stage. Young student. He drank a draught of cooler tea to wash down his
meal. Then he read the letter again : twice.
       O well : she knows how to mind herself. But if not? No, nothing has
happened. Of course it might. Wait in any case till it does. A wild piece of
goods. Her slim legs running up the staircase. Destiny. Ripening now. Vain :
       He smiled with troubled affection at the kitchen window. Day I caught her
in the street pinching her cheeks to make them red. Anemic a little. Was
given milk too long. On the Erin’s King that day round the Kish. Damned old
tub pitching about. Not a bit funky. Her pale blue scarf loose in the wind with
her hair.

                                  All dimpled cheek’s and curls,
                                  Your head it simply swirls.

       Seaside girls. Torn envelope. Hands stuck in his trousers’ pockets, jarvey
off for the day, singing. Friend of the family. Swurls, he says. Pier with
lamps, summer evening, band,