"He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the wall. Make a summerhouse here. Scarlet runners. Virginia creepers. Want to manure the whole place over, scabby soil. A coat of liver of sulphur. All soil like that without dung. Household slops. Loam, what is this that is?" (U4.475)
"The hens in the next garden: their droppings are very good top dressing. Best of all though are the cattle, especially when they are fed on those oilcakes. Mulch of dung. Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. Dirty cleans. Ashes too." (U4.478)
"Reclaim the whole place. Grow peas in that corner there. Lettuce. Always have fresh greens then. Still gardens have their drawbacks. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday.
He walked on. Where is my hat, by the way? Must have put it back on the peg. Or hanging up on the floor. Funny I don't remember that. Hallstand too full. Four umbrellas, her raincloak. Picking up the letters." (U4.482)
He walked on. Where is my hat, by the way? Must have put it back on the peg. Or hanging up on the floor. Funny I don't remember that. Hallstand too full. Four umbrellas, her raincloak. Picking up the letters." (U4.482)
"Drago's shopbell ringing. Queer I was just thinking that moment." ([U4.488])
"Brown brillantined hair over his collar. Just had a wash and brushup. Wonder have I time for a bath this morning. Tara street. Chap in the paybox there got away James Stephens, they say. O'Brien.
Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. Agendath what is it? Now, my miss. Enthusiast." (U4.488)
Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. Agendath what is it? Now, my miss. Enthusiast." (U4.488)
"He kicked open the crazy door of the jakes." (4.494)
"Better be careful not to get these trousers dirty for the funeral." (U4.494)
"He went in, bowing his head under the low lintel. Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the nextdoor windows." (U4.495)
"The king was in his countinghouse. Nobody." (U4.498)
"Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper, turning its pages over on his bared knees. Something new and easy. No great hurry. Keep it a bit. Our prize titbit: Matcham's Masterstroke. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Payment at the rate of one guinea a column has been made to the writer. Three and a half. Three pounds three. Three pounds thirteen and six." (U4:500).
Tit-Bits indeed promised such payments.
Tit-Bits indeed promised such payments.
"Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column and, yielding but resisting, began the second. Midway, his last resistance yielding, he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still patiently, that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone." (U4.506)
"Hope it's not too big bring on piles again. No, just right. So. Ah! Costive. One tabloid of cascara sagrada." (U4.509)
"Life might be so. It did not move or touch him but it was something quick and neat. Print anything now. Silly season. He read on, seated calm above his own rising smell. Neat certainly. Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke by which he won the laughing witch who now. Begins and ends morally. Hand in hand. Smart." (U4.511)
"He glanced back through what he had read and, while feeling his water flow quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment of three pounds, thirteen and six" U4.515)
"Might manage a sketch. By Mr and Mrs L.M. Bloom. Invent a story for some proverb. Which?" (U4.518)
(Craig Swanson did manage a nice Sketch!)
(Craig Swanson did manage a nice Sketch!)
"Time I used to try jotting down on my cuff what she said dressing." (U4.519)