-Bravo! Clapclap. Good man, Simon. Clappyclapclap. Encore! Clapclipclap
clap. Sound as a bell. Bravo, Simon! Clapclopclap. Encore, enclap, said,
cried, clapped all, Ben Dollard, Lydia Douce, George Lidwell, Pat, Mina
Kennedy, two gentlemen with two tankards, Cowley, first gent with tank
and bronze miss Douce and gold MJiss Mina.

Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor, said before.
Jingle by monuments of sir John Gray, Horatio onehandled Nelson,
reverend father Theobald Mathew, jaunted, as said before just now.
Atrot, in heat, heatseated. _Cloche. Sonnez la. Cloche. Sonnez la._
Slower the mare went up the hill by the Rotunda, Rutland square. Too
slow for Boylan, blazes Boylan, impatience Boylan, joggled the mare.

An afterclang of Cowley's chords closed, died on the air made richer.

And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold Bloom his cider drank,
Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said they would partake of two
more tankards if she did not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving,
coral lips, at first, at second. She did not mind.

--Seven days in jail, Ben Dollard said, on bread and water. Then you'd
sing, Simon, like a garden thrush.

Lionel Simon, singer, laughed. Father Bob Cowley played. Mina Kennedy
served. Second gentleman paid. Tom Kernan strutted in. Lydia, admired,
admired. But Bloom sang dumb.

Admiring.

Richie, admiring, descanted on that man's glorious voice. He remembered
one night long ago. Never forget that night. Si sang _'Twas rank and
fame_: in Ned Lambert's 'twas. Good God he never heard in all his life a
note like that he never did _then false one we had better part_ so clear
so God he never heard _since love lives not_ a clinking voice lives not
ask Lambert he can tell you too.

Goulding, a flush struggling in his pale, told Mr Bloom, face of the
night, Si in Ned Lambert's, Dedalus house, sang _'Twas rank and fame._

He, Mr Bloom, listened while he, Richie Goulding, told him, Mr Bloom, of
the night he, Richie, heard him, Si Dedalus, sing 'TWAS RANK AND FAME in
his, Ned Lambert's, house.

Brothers-in-law: relations. We never speak as we pass by. Rift in the
lute I think. Treats him with scorn. See. He admires him all the more.
The night Si sang. The human voice, two tiny silky chords, wonderful,
more than all others.

That voice was a lamentation. Calmer now. It's in the silence after you
feel you hear. Vibrations. Now silent air.

Bloom ungyved his crisscros