(Twice loudly a pandybat cracks, the coffin of the pianola flies open, the bald little round jack-in-the-box head of Father Dolan springs up.)
FATHER DOLAN: Any boy want flogging? Broke his glasses? Lazy idle little schemer. See it in your eye.
(Mild, benign, rectorial, reproving, the head of Don John Conmee rises from the pianola coffin.)
DON JOHN CONMEE: Now, Father Dolan! Now. I’m sure that Stephen is a very good little boy!
ZOE: (Examining Stephen’s palm.) Woman’s hand.
STEPHEN: (Murmurs.) Continue. Lie. Hold me. Caress. I never could read His handwriting except His criminal thumbprint on the haddock.
ZOE: What day were you born?
STEPHEN: Thursday. Today.
ZOE: Thursday’s child has far to go. (She traces lines on his hand.) Line of fate. Influential friends.
FLORRY: (Pointing.) Imagination.