"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)
"Dislike dressing together. Nicked myself shaving. Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her skirt. Timing her." (U4.520)
"9.15. Did Roberts pay you yet? 9.20. What had Gretta Conroy on? 9.23. What possessed me to buy this comb? 9.24. I'm swelled after that cabbage. A speck of dust on the patent leather of her boot: rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stockinged calf." (U4.521)
"Morning after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the hours. Explain that: morning hours, noon, then evening coming on, then night hours." (U4.525)
"Washing her teeth." (U4.527)
"That was the first night. Her head dancing. Her fansticks clicking. Is that Boylan well off? He has money. Why? I noticed he had a good rich smell off his breath dancing. No use humming then. Allude to it. Strange kind of music that last night." (U4.528)
"The mirror was in shadow. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her woollen vest against her full wagging bub. Peering into it. Lines in her eyes. It wouldn't pan out somehow." (U4.531)
"Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. Night hours then black with daggers and eyemasks. Poetical idea: pink, then golden, then grey, then black. Still, true to life also. Day: then the night." (U4.534)