Miss Douce of satin douced her arm away.
—O go away! she said. You’re very simple, I don’t think.
He was.
—Well now I am, he mused. I looked so simple in the cradle they christened me simple Simon.
—You must have been a doaty, miss Douce made answer. And what did the doctor order today?
—Well now, he mused, whatever you say yourself. I think I’ll trouble you for some fresh water and a half glass of whisky.
Jingle.
—With the greatest alacrity, miss Douce agreed.
With grace of alacrity towards the mirror gilt Cantrell and Cochrane’s she turned herself. With grace she tapped a measure of gold whisky from her crystal keg. Forth from the skirt of his coat Mr Dedalus brought pouch and pipe. Alacrity she served. He blew through the flue two husky fifenotes.
—By Jove, he mused, I often wanted to see the Mourne mountains. Must be a great tonic in the air down there. But a long threatening comes at last, they say. Yes. Yes.