"Thirtytwo feet per second, per second. Law of falling bodies: per second, per second. They all fall to the ground. The earth. It's the force of gravity of the earth is the weight." (U5.44)
"He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk with her sausages? Like that something. As he walked he took the folded Freeman from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton and tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. Careless air: just drop in to see." (U5.47)
"Per second, per second. Per second for every second it means." (U5.51)
"From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of the postoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one. In." (U5.52)
"He handed the card through the brass grill.
- Are there any letters for me? he asked.
While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper." (U5.54)
"No answer probably. Went too far last time.
The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a letter. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.
Henry Flower, Esq,
c/o P.O. Westland Row,
"Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade. Where's old Tweedy's regiment? Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he's a grenadier. Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers." (U5.65)
"Redcoats. Too showy. That must be why the women go after them. Uniform. Easier to enlist and drill." (5.68)
"Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell street at night: disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffith's paper is on the same tack now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire. Half baked they look: hypnotised like. Eyes front. Mark time. Table: able. Bed: ed." (U5.70)
"The King's own. Never see him dressed up as a fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes.
He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if that would mend matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger felt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks. Women will pay a lot of heed, I don't think. His fingers drew forth the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something pinned on: photo perhaps. Hair? No.
M'Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate company when you." (U5.74)
This CDV shows Edward VII (then Prince of Wales) as a mason. He was installed as Grand Master in 1874. He regularly appeared thus in public, laying the foundation stones of public buildings, bridges, dockyards, and churches with Masonic ceremony, giving great impetus and publicity to the fraternity.
— Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?
— Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular.
— How's the body?
— Fine. How are you?
— Just keeping alive, M'Coy said.
His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect:
— Is there any... no trouble I hope? I see you're...
— O, no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today.
— To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time?" (U5.84)
"A photo it isn't. A badge maybe.
— Eleven, Mr Bloom answered.
— I must try to get out there, M'Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only heard it last night. Who was telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy?
— I know." (U93)
"Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the door of the Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She stood still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her, searched his pockets for change." (U5.98)
"Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless stand of her with her hands in those patch pockets." (U5.101)
"Like that haughty creature at the polo match. Women all for caste till you touch the spot. Handsome is and handsome does. Reserved about to yield. The honourable Mrs" (U5.103)