Le Navire d'argent

Page proofs of Le Navire, September 1925, I.8 draft level 7

MS Yale 6.2 59-74 Draft details

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tell me all about
Anna Livia! I want to hear

all about Anna Livia. Well, you know Anna Livia? Yes, of course, we all know Anna Livia. Tell me all. Tell me now. You'll die when you hear. Well, you know, when the old chap went futt and did what you know. Yes, I know, go on. Wash away and don't be dabbling. Tuck up your sleeves and loosen your talktapes. Or whatever it was they try to make out he tried to do in the Fiendish Park. He's an awful old rep. Look at the shirt of him! Look at the dirt of it! He has all my water black on me. And it steeping and stuping since this time last week. How many times is it I wonder I washed it? I know by heart the places he likes to soil. Scorching my hand and starving my famine to make his private linen public. Wallop it well with your battle and clean it. My wrists are rusty rubbing the mouldaw stains. And the dneepers of wet and the gangres of sin in it! What was it he did |7at all a tail7| at all on Animal Sunday? And how long was he under lough and neagh? It was put in the papers what he did, illysus distilling and all. But time will tell. I know it will. Time and tide will wash for no man. O, the old old rep! And the cut of him! And the strut of him! How he used to hold his head as high as a howeth, the famous old duke alien, with a hump of grandeur on him like a walking rat! What age is he at all at all? Or where was he born or how was he found and were him and her ever spliced? I heard he dug good tin with his doll when he brought her home, Sabine asthore, in a perokeet's cage, the quaggy way for stumbling. Who sold you that jackalantern's tale? In a gabbard he landed, the boat of life, and he loosed two croakers from under his tilt, the old Phenician rover. By the smell of her kelp they made the pigeonhouse. Like fun they |7did but did! But7| where was Himself? That marchantman he follied their scutties right over the wash, his cameleer's burnous breezing up on him, till with his runagate bowmpriss he rode and borst her bar. Pwllhyllyou! Och, I'm kilt! Tune
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your pipes and fall ahumming, you born ijypt, and you're nothing short of one! When they saw him shoot swift up her sheba sheath, like any gay lord salomon, her bulls they were roaring, surfed with spree. Nooknoorum nyroo! Nooknoorum nyroo! He erned his lille Bunbath hard, our staly bred, the trader. He did. Look at here. In this wet of his prow. Didn't you know he was a bairn of the sea, |7Waterhouse Waterbourne7| the waterbaby? O, I know, so he was. H.C.E. has a briny ee. Sure, she's nearly as bad as him herself. Who? Anna Livia? Ay, Anna Livia! Do you know she was calling backwater girls from all around to go in till him, her erring man, and tickle the pontiff easy? She was? Go to pot! O, tell me all I want to hear. Letting on she didn't care, the proxenete! Proxenete and phwhat is phthat? Did they never otter you ebro at skol? It's just the same as if I was to go for example now and proxenete you. For Cox' sake and is
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that what she is? Didn't you spot her in her windeye, wubbling up on an osiery chair, pretending to ribble a reedy derg on a fiddle she bows without a bottom? Sure she can't fiddan a dee, bow or bottom! Srue, she can't! Just a suck. Well, I never heard the like of that! Tell me more. Tell me most.

Well, old Humber was as glum as a grampus, setting moping on his benk, where he'd check their
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debths in that mormon's thames, hungerstriking all alone and holding doomsdag over himself, dreeing his weird with his dander up and his fringe combed over his eygs and keeking on loft till the sight of the sternes. You'd think all was dead belonging to him. He had been belching for severn years. And there she was, Anna Livia, she darent catch a winkle of sleep, purling around like a chit of a child, in a Lapsummer skirt and damazon cheeks. And an odd time she'd cook him up blooms of fisk and lay to his heartsfoot her meddery eygs and staynish beacons on toasc and a cupenhave of greenland's tay and a shinking bread for to plaise that man hog stay his stomicker till her pyrraknees shrunk to nutmeg graters, and as rash as she'd rush with her peakload of vivers up on her tray my bold Hek he'd kast them from him with a stour of scorn as much as to say you this and you that, and if he didn't peg the plateau in her face, believe me, she was safe enough. And then she'd try to vistule a hymn, The Heart Bowed Down or The Rakes of Mallow. What harm if she knew how to cockle her mouth! And not a mag out of Hum no more than out of the
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mangle weight. Is that a faith? That's a fact. And brahming to him down the feedchute, with all kinds of fondling endings, the poother rambling off her nose: Vuggybarney, Wickerymandy! Hello, ducky, please don't die! Do you know what she started cheeping then, the voice of her like a watergluck? You'll never guess. Tell me. Tell me. Phoebe, dearest, tell, O tell me and I loved you better nor you knew. And letting on she was daft about the old warbly sangs from over holmen, High hellskirt saw ladies hensmoker lilyhung pigger, and Oom Bothar below in his sandy cloak as deaf as a yawn. Go away! You're only jeering! Anna Liv? As Chalk is my judge! And didn't she up and rise and go and trot down and stand in the door, puffing her old dudheen, and every country wench or farmerette walking the pilend roads usedn't she make her a sign to slip inside by the sullyport? You don't say the sillypost? I did. And I do. Calling them in one by one and legging a jig or so to show them how to shake their benders and the dainty how to bring to mind the gladdest garments out of sight and all the way of a maid with a man and making a sort of a cackling noise like two and a penny or half a crown and holding up a silver shiner. Lordy, lordy, did she so? Well, of all the ones ever I heard! Throwing all the girls of the world at him! To any lass you like of no matter what sex of playful ways two and a tanner a girl a go to hug and have fun in Humpy's apron!

And what was the wyerye rhyme she made? O that! Tell me that while I'm lathering hell out of Denis Florence MacCarthy's combies. I'm dying down off my iodine feet until I hear Anna Livia's cushingloo! I can see that. I see you are. How does it go? Listen now. Are you listening? Yes, yes! Indeed I am! Listen now. Listen in:

By earth and heaven but I badly want a brandnew bankside, bedamp and I do, and a plumper at that!
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For the putty affair I have is wore out, so it is, sitting, yaping and waiting for my old Dane the dodderer, my life in death companion, my frugal key of our larder, my much altered camel's hump, my jointspoiler, my maymoon's honey, my fool to the last Decemberer, to wake himself out of his winter's doze and shout me down like he used to.

Is there a lord of the manor or a knight of the shire at all, I wonder, that'd dip me a pound or two in cash for washing and darning his worshipful socks for him now we're run out of horsemeat and milk?

Only for my short Brittas bed is as snug as it smells it's out I'd lep and off with me to the slobs of the Tolka or the shores of Clontarf to hear the gay air of my salt troublin bay and the race of the saywint up me ambushure.

O go on! Tell me more. Tell me every tiny bit. I want to know every single thing. Well, now comes the hazelhatchery part. How many aleveens had she |7in all in tollº7|? I can't rightly tell you that. Close only knows. Some say she had a hundred and eleven. She can't remember half of the cradlenames she smacked on them by the grace of her boxing bishop's infallible slipper. A hundred and how? They did well to rechristen her Plurabelle. O loreley! What a |7lots loads7|! She must have been a gadabout in her day, so she must, more than most. Shoal she was, you bet! She had a flewmen of her owen. Tell me, tell me, how could she cam through all her fellows, the daredevil? Linking one and knocking the next and palling in and petering out and clyding by on her eastway. Who was the first that ever burst? Someone it was, whoever you are. Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, Paul Pry or polishman. That's the thing I always want to know. She can't put her hand on him for the moment. It's a long long way, walking weary! Such a long way backwards to row! She says herself she hardly knows who her graveller was or what he did or how young she played or when and where and how often he jumped her. She was just a young thin pale soft shy slim slip of a thing then, sauntering, and he was a heavy trudging lurching lieabroad of a Curraghman, making his hay for the sun to shine on, as tough as the oaktrees (peats be with them!) used to rustle that time down by the dykes of killing Kildare, that forstfellfoss with a plash across her. She thought she'd sink under the ground with shame when he gave her the tigris eye! You're wrong there, corribly wrong! It was ages behind that when nullahs were nowhere, in county
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Wickenlow, garden of Erin, before she ever dreamt she'd leave Kilbride and go fuming under Horsepass bridge to wend her ways byandby, rebecca or worse, in the barleyfields and pennylotts of Humphrey's fordofhurdlestown and lie with a landleaper, wellingtonorseher. Wasut? Izod? Are you suir? Whereabouts in Ow and Ovoca? Was it north by south or Lucan Yokan or where the hand of man has never set foot? Tell me where, the very first time! I will if you listen. You know the dingley dell of Luggelaw? Well, there once dwelt a local heremite, Michael Arklow was his |7riverend7| name (with many a sigh I aspersed his lavabibs!), and one venersderg in junojuly, so sweet and so fresh and so limber she looked, |7in the silence, of the sycomores, all listening,7| the kind of curves you simply can't stop feeling, he plunged both of his blessed anointed hands up to his wrists in the singing saffron streams of her hair, parting them and soothing her and mingling it, that was |7deepred deepdarkº7| and ample like the red bog at sundown. |7And he couldn't And he cuddle not7| help himself, thurst was too hot on him, he had to forget the monk in the man, so, rubbing her up and smoothing her down, he cooled his lips in smiling mood, kiss after kiss (as he warned her never to, never to, never), on |7Anna Livia's Anna-na-Poghue'sº7|
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freckled forehead. O, wasn't he the bold priest? And wasn't she the naughty Livvy? Naughty Naama is her name. Two lads in their breeches went through her before that, Barefoot Byrne and Willy Wade, Lugnaquillia's noble pair, before she had a hint of a hair at her fanny to hide and ere that again she was licked by a hound while poing her pee, pure and simple, on the spur of the hill in old Kippure, in birdsong and shearingtime, but first of all, worst of all, she sideslipped out by a gap in the Devil's Glen while Sally her nurse was sound asleep in a sloot and fell over a spillway before she found her stride and lay and wriggled in all the stagnant black pools of rain under a fallow cow and she laughed innocefree with her limbs aloft and a whole drove of maiden hawthorns blushing and looking askance upon her.

Drop me the sound of the shorthorn's name. And drip me why in the something was she freckled. And trickle me through was she marcelwaved or was it weirdly a wig she wore. Are you in the swim or are you out? O go on, go on, go on! I mean about what you know. I know right well what you mean. What am I rinsing now and I'll thank you? Is it a pinny or is it a surplice? Arran, where's your nose? And where's the starch? That's not the benediction smell. I can tell from here by their eau de Niels and the scent of her moisture they're Mrs Magrath's. And you ought to have aired them. They've just come off her. Creases in silk they are, not crampton lawn.
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The only pair with frills in old the plain. So they are. Well, well! And there's her nubilee letters too. Ellis on quay in scarlet thread. And an ex after to show they're not Laura Kehoe's. Ormond the devil twist your safety pin! Now, who has been tearing the leg of her drawers on her? Which leg is it? The one with the bells on it. Rinse them out and aston along with you! Where did I stop? Never stop. Continuarration! You're not there yet. Garonne, garonne!

Well, after it was put in the Beggar's Monday Journal even the snow that fell on his hoaring hair had a skunner against him. Everywhere ever you went and every bung you ever dropped into or wherever you scoured the countryside from Nannywater to Vartryville you found his pixture upside down or the cornerboys burning his guy and Pat the Man reeling and rolling around the local with oddfellow's triple tiara busby rotundarinking round his scalp. She swore she'd be level with all of them yet. So she said to herself she'd frame a plan to fake a shine, the mischiefmaker, the like of it you never heard. What plan? Tell me quickly. What the mischief did she make? Well, she bergened a bag, a shammy mailbag, off one of her swapsons, Shaun the Post, and then she went and made herself up. O goggle of
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gigglers, I can't tell you how! It's too screaming funny, rabbit it all! O, but you must, you must really! By the holy well of Mulhuddart I swear I'd give my chance of going to heaven to hear it all, every word. O, leave me my faculties, woman, a while! If you don't like my story get out of the punt. Well, have it your own way so. Here, sit down and do as you're bid. Lisp it slaney and crisp it quiet. Tell me longsome. Take your time now. Breathe deep. That's the fairway. Hurry slow and scheldt you go. Give us your blessed ashes here till I scrub the canon's underpants. Flow now. Ower more.

First she let her hair fall and down it flussed to her feet its teviots winding coils. Then, mothernaked, she washed herself with bogwater and mudsoap, upper and lower, from crown to sole. Next she greased the groove of her keel with antifouling butterscotch and turfentine and serpenthyme, and with leafmould she ushered round prunella isles and islets dun allover her little mary. And after that she wove a garland for her hair. She pleated it. She plaited it. Of meadowgrass and riverflags, the bulrush and waterweed, and of fallen |7leaves griefs7| of weeping willow. Then she made her bracelets and her anklets and her armlets and a jetty amulet for necklace of clicking cobbles and pattering pebbles and rumbledown rubble, richmond and rare, of Irish rhinestones and shellmarble bangles. That done, a dawk of smut to her airy eye, and she sent her boudeloire maid to His Affluence with respecks from his missus, seepy and sewery, and a request she might leave him for a minnikin. She said she wouldn't be half her length away. Then, then, with her mealiebag slung over her shoulder, Anna Livia, oysterface, out at last she came.

Describe her! |7Bustle Hustle7| along, why can't you? Spitz on the iern while it's hot. I wouldn't miss her for the world. |7I mussel, I absolute must I mussel, I absolute most7| hear that! What had she on, the little old oddity? How much did she scallop, harness and weights? Here she is, Amnisty Ann! Call her calamity electrifies man.

No electress at all but old Moppa Necessity, mother of injins. I'll tell you now. But you must sit still. Will you hold your peace and listen well to what I am going to say now? It might have been ten or twenty to one when the flip of her hoogly igloo fluttered and out stepped a fairy woman, the dearest little mother ever you saw, nodding around her, all smiles, between two ages, a judy queen not up to your
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elb. And look at her sharp and seize her quick for the longer she lives the shorter she grows. Save us and tagus! No more? Why where did you ever pick a Lambay chop as big as a battering ram? Ay, you're right. I was forgetting. The height of my hough, I say! She wore a ploughboy's nailstudded clogs, a pair of ploughfields in themselves: a sugarloaf hat with a gaudyquivery peak and a band of gorse and a hundred streamers dancing off it and a golden pin to pierce it: owlglassy bicycles boggled her eyes: and a fishnet veil she had to keep the sun from spoiling her wrinkles: potatorings buckled the loose ends of her ears: her nude cuba stockings were salmonspotspeckled: she sported a shimmy of hazegrey that once was blued till it ran in the washing: stout stays, the rivals, lined her length: her bloodorange knickers showed natural nigger boggers, fancyfastened, free to undo: her blackstripe tan joseph was teddybearlined, with wavy rushgreen epaulettes and a leadown here and there of royal swansruff: a brace of gaspers stuck in her hayrope garters: her civvy coat was boundaried round with a twobar tunnel belt: she had a clothespeg tight astride of her nose and she kept on grinding something quaint in her mouth: and the tail of her snuffdrab shuiler's skirt trailed fifty Irish miles behind her on the road.

Hellsbells, I'm sorry I missed her! Sweet umptyum and nobody fainted. But in whelk of her mouths? Was her naze alight? Everyone that saw her said the |7douce dowse7| little delia looked a bit queer. Lotsy trotsy, mind the poddle! Funny poor frump she must have charred. Kickhams a rummier ever you saw. Making soft mullet's eyes at her boys dobelong. And they crowned her the queen of the may. Of the may? You don't say! Well for her she couldn't see herself.
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I warrant that's why she murrayed her mirror. She did? Mersey me! There was a gang of drouthdropping surfacemen,
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boomslanging and plugchewing, lolling and leasing on Lazy Wall by the Jook of Yoick's and as soon as they saw her meander by in her grasswinter's weeds and twigged who was under her deaconess bonnet, Avondale's fish and Clarence's poison, says one to another: Between me and you and the granite we're warming, as round as a hoop, Alp has doped.

But what was the game in her mixed bag? I want to get it while it's fresh. I bet my beard it's worth while poaching on. Shake it up, do, do! I promise I'll make it worth your while. And I don't mean maybe. Tell me more but tell me true.

Well, arondgirond she pattered and swung and sidled, dribbling her boulder through narrows of mosses, not knowing which medway to strike it, like Santa Claus at the call of the pale and puny, with a Christmas box apiece for each and every one of her childer. The rivulets ran to see, the glashaboys, the pollynooties. And they all about her, youths and maidens, rickets and riots, chipping her and raising a bit of a jeer or cheer every time she'd |7dip neb7| in her culdee sack of rubbish she robbed and reach out her maundy merchandise, stinkers and heelers, laggards and primeboys, her furzeborn sons and |7dribbledary dribblederry7| daughters, a thousand and one of them, and wickerpotluck for each of them. A tinker's bann and a barrow to boil his billy for Gipsy Lee: a cartridge of cockaleekie soup for Tommy the Soldier:
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for sulky Pender's acid nephew deltoid drops, curiously strong: a cough and a rattle and wildrose cheeks for poor little Petite MacFarlane: a jigsaw puzzle of needles and pins and blankets and shins between them for Isabel and Llewelyn Marriage: a brazen nose and pigiron mittens for Johnny Walker Beg: a papal flag of the saints and stripes for Kevineen O'Dea: a puffpuff for Pudge Craig and a nightmarching hare for Toucher Doyle: waterleg and gumboots each for Bully Hayes and Hurricane Hartigan: a prodigal heart and fatted calves for Buck Jones, the pride of Clonliffe: a loaf of bread and a father's early kick for Tim from Skibereen: a jauntingcar for Larry Doolin, the Ballyclee jackeen: a seasick trip on a government ship for Teague O'Flanagan: a louse and trap for Jerry Coyle: slushmincepies for Andy Mackenzie: a hairclip and clackdish for Penceless Peter: a spellingbee book for Rosy Brooke: a drowned doll for Sister Anne Mortimer: a snake in clover and a vaticanned vipercatcher's visa for Patsy Presbys: scruboak beads for beatified Biddy: two appletweed stools for Eva Mobbely: for Sara Philpot a jordan vale tearjar: a pretty box of Pettyfib's Powder for Eileen Alannah to whiten her teeth and outflash Helen Arhone: a whipping top for Eddy Lawless: for Kitty Coleraine of Buttermilk Lane a penny wise for her foolish pitcher: a putty shovel for Larry the Puckaun: a potamus mask for Promoter Dunne: a dynamite egg for Paul the Curate:
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a tibertine's pile with a Congoswood cross on the back for Sunny Jim: for Camilla, Dromilla, Ludmilla, Mamilla, a bucket, a packet, a book and a pillow: for Nancy Shannon a Tuam brooch: for Dora Hopeandwater a cooling douche and a warmingpan: a pair of Blarney breeks for Wally Meagher: a hairpin slatepencil for Elsie Oram to scratch her toby, doing her best with her volgar fractions: an old age pension for Betty the Beauty: a bag of the blues for Funny Fitz: Jill, the spoon of a girl, for Jack, the broth of a boy: a Rogerson Crusoe Friday fast for Caducus Angelus Rubiconstein: three hundred and sixtysix poplin tyne for revery warp in the weaver's woof for Victor Hugonot: a |7stiff7| rake and good
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muck for Kate the Cleaner: a hole in the ballad for Hosty: two dozen of cradles for J. F. X. P. Coppinger: a letter to last a lifetime for Maggy beyond by the ashpit: the heftiest frozenmeat woman from Lusk to Livienbad for Felim the Ferry: spas and speranza for Gouty Gough: a change of naves and joys of ills for Armoricus Tristram Amoor Saint Lawrence: a C3 peduncle for Karmalite Kane: a sunless map of the month, including the sword and stamps for Shemus O'Shaun the Post: a jackal with hide for Browne but Nolan: a stonecold shoulder for Donn Joe Vance: all lock and no stable for Honorbright Meretrix: a big drum for Billy Dunboyne: whatever you like to swilly to drink,
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Yuinness or Yennessy, Lagen or Niger, for Festus King and Roaring Peter and Frisky Shorty and Treacle Tom and O. B. Behan and Sully the Thug and Master Magrath and Peter Cloran and whoever you chance to meet knocking around: and a bladder balloon for Selina Susquehana Stakelum. But what did she give to Pruda Ward and Peggy Quilty and Nora Brosna and Teasy Kieran and Ena Lappin and Flora Ferns and Fauna Fox-Goodman and Una and Bina and Trina La Mesme and Philomena O'Farrell and Irmak Elly and Josephine Foyle and Snakeshead Lily and Fountainoy Laura and Mary Xavier Agnes Daisy Francis de Sales MacCabe? She gave them every mother's daughter a moonflower and a bloodleaf. So on Izzy, her shamemaid, love shone befond her tears as from Shem, her penmight, life past befoul his prime.

My colonial, what a bagful! That's what you may call a tale of a tub. All that and more under one crinoline envelope if you dare to break the porkbarrel seal. No wonder they'd run from her like the plague. Throw us your hudson soap for the honour of Clane! The wee taste the water left. You've all the swirls your side of the current. Well, am I to blame for that if I have? Who said you're to blame for that if you have? My hands are as blue between cold and soda as that piece of pattern chayney there, lying below. Or where is it? Lying beside the (+7reeds sedge+)7| I saw it. Hoangho, my sorrow, I've lost it! With that |7peaty turbary7| water who could see? But O, go on. I love a gabber. I could listen to more and mauve again. Rain onder river. Flies do your float. Thick is the life for mere.

Well, you know or don't you know or haven't I told you every story has an end and that's the he and the she of it. Look, look, the dusk is growing. What time is it? It must be late. It's ages now since I or anyone last saw Waterhouse's clock. They took it asunder, I heard them say. When will they reassemble it? O, my back, my back, my back! I'd want to go to Aches-les-Pains. Wring out the clothes! Wring in the dew! Will we spread them here now? Ay, we will. Spread on your bank and I'll spread mine on mine. It's what I'm doing. Spread! It's churning chill. Der went is rising. I'll lay a few stones on the hotel sheets. A man and his bride embraced between them. Else I'd have sprinkled and folded them only. And I'll tie my butcher's apron here. It's suety yet. The strollers will pass it by. Six shifts, ten kerchiefs, the convent napkins, twelve, one baby's shawl. Where are all her childer now? Some here, more no more, more again lost to the stranger. I've heard tell that same brooch of the Shannons was married into a family in Spain. And all the Dunnes beyond Brendan's sea takes number nine in hats. And one of Biddy's
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beads went bobbing lonesome till she rounded up last histereve with a marigold and a cobbler's candle in a main drain off Bachelor's Walk. But all that's left to the last of the Meaghers is
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one kneebuckle and two hooks in the front. Do you tell me that now? I do, in troth. Oronoko! What's |7the your7| trouble? Is that the great Finnleader himself in his joakimono on his statue riding the high horse there forehengist? There? Is it that? On Fallareen Common? Throw the cobwebs from your eyes, woman, and spread your washing proper. It's well I know your sort of slop. Were you lifting your elbow, tell us, glazy cheeks, in the Carrigacurra canteen? Was I what, hobbledyhips? Amn't I up since the damp dawn with varicose veins, soaking and bleaching boiler rags, and sweating cold, a widow like me, to deck my tennis champion son, the laundryman with the lavender flannels? Holy Scamander! I saw it again! Near the golden falls. Icis on us! There! Subdue your noise, you poor creature! What is it but a blackberry growth or the dwyergray ass them four old codgers owns. Are you maining Tarpey and Lyons and Gregory? I mean now, thank all, the four of them, and the roar of them, that owns that stray in the mist and old Johnny MacDougal along with
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them. Is that the Poolbeg flasher beyant or the mast of a coaster nigh the Kish or a glow I behold within a hedge? Wait till the rising of the moon. My sights are swimming thicker on me by the shadows to this place. I'll sow home slowly now by own way, moyvalley way. (+7Row will Tow will+)7| I too, rathmine.

Ah, but she was the queer old skeowsha anyhow, Anna Livia, twinkletoes! And sure he was the queer old buntz too, Dear Dirty Dumpling, foostherfather of fingalls and fotthergills! Gammer and gaffer, we're all their gangsters. Hadn't he seven dams to wive him? And every dam had her seven
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crutches. And every crutch had its seven hues. And each hue had a differing cry. Suds for me and supper for you and the doctor's bill for Joe John. Before! Before! He married his markets, cheap by foul, I know, but at milkidmass who was the spouse? Then all that was was fair. In Elvenland! Teems of times and happy returns. The same anew. Ordovico or viricordo. Anna was, Livia is, Plurabelle's to be. Northmen's thing made southfolk's place but howmulty plurators made eachone in person? Latin me that, my trinity scholard. Hircus Civis Eblanensis! He had buckgoat paps on him, soft ones for orphans. Ho, Lord! Twins of his bosom. Lord save us! And ho! Hey? What all men. Hot? His tittering daughters of. Whawk?

Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Flittering bats, fieldmice bawk talk. Ho! Are you not gone ahome? What Tom Malone? Can't hear with bawk of bats, all the liffeying waters of. Ho, talk save us! My foos woon't moos. I feel as old as yonder elm. A tale told of Shaun or Shem? All Livia's daughtersons. Dark hawks hear us! Night! Night! My ho head halls. I feel
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as heavy as yonder stone. Tell me of John or Shaun? Who were Shem and Shaun the living sons or daughters of? Night now! Tell me, tell me, tell me, elm! Nighty night! Tell me tale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of, hitherandthithering waters of. Night!