"It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sitting all day typing. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. What perfume does your wife use? Now could you make out a thing like that?
To keep it up." (U5.285)
"Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or faked for money. He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious." (U5.289)
"Also the two sluts in the Coombe would listen.
Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything rip. Forget. " (U5.290)
"Tell about places you have been, strange customs. The other one, jar on her head, was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of the well, stonecold like the hole in the wall at Ashtown." (U5.294)
"Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the trotting matches.
"She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: more and more: all. Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest.
Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly in shreds and scattered them towards the road. The shreds fluttered away, sank in the dank air: a white flutter, then all sank." (U5.297)
"Henry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in the same way. Simple bit of paper." (U5.303
"Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure cheque for a million" (U5.304)
"in the bank of Ireland. (U5.305).
A receipt from the Bank of Ireland, dated June 28th 1899.
"Shows you the money to be made out of porter. Still the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change his shirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A million pounds, wait a moment." (U5.305)
"Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter. One and four into twenty: fifteen about." (U5.308)
"Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter.
What am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a million barrels all the same.
An incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach. Barrels bumped in his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside." (U5.311)
"The bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together, winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth." (U5.314)
"He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Stepping into the porch he doffed his hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again behind the leather headband. Damn it." (U5.318)
"I might have tried to work M'Coy for a pass to Mullingar." (U5.320)
"Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conmee S.J. on saint Peter Claver and the African mission." (U5.322)