grey horror seared his flesh. folding the page into his pocket he turned into eccles street, hurrying homeward. cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a salt cloak. well, i am here now. morning mouth bad images. got up wrong side of the bed. must begin again those sandow's exercises. on the hands down. blotchy brown brick houses. number eighty still unlet. why is that? valuation is only twenty-eight. towers, battersby, north, macarthur: parlour windows plastered with bills. plasters on a sore eye. to smell the gentle smoke of tea, fume of the pan, sizzling butter. be near her ample bedwarmed flesh. yes, yes.
quick warm sunlight came running from berkeley road, swiftly, in slim sandals, along the brightening footpath. runs, she runs to meet me, a girl with gold hair on the wind.
two letters and a card lay on the hallfloor. he stopped and gathered them. mrs marion bloom. his quick heart slowed at once. bold hand. mrs marion.
-- poldy!
entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head.
-- who are the letters for?
he looked at them. mullingar. milly.
-- a letter for me from milly, he said carefully, and a card to you. and a letter for you.
he laid her card and letter on the twill bedspread near the curve of her knees.
-- do you want the blind up?
letting the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her glance at the letter and tuck it under her pillow.
-- that do? he asked, turning.
she was reading the card, propped on her elbow.
-- she got the things, she said.
he waited till she had laid the card aside and curled herself back slowly with a snug sigh.
-- hurry up with that tea, she said. i'm parched.
-- the kettle is boiling, he said.
but he delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and lifted all in an armful on to the foot of the bed.
as he went down the kitchen stairs she called:
-- poldy!
-- what?
-- scald the teapot.