hat I suppose. All tarred with the same brush
Wiping pens in their stockings. But the ball rolled down to her as if
it understood. Every bullet has its billet. Course I never could throw
anything straight at school. Crooked as a ram's horn. Sad however
because it lasts only a few years till they settle down to potwalloping
and papa's pants will soon fit Willy and fuller's earth for the baby
when they hold him out to do ah ah. No soft job. Saves them. Keeps
them out of harm's way. Nature. Washing child, washing corpse. Dignam.
Children's hands always round them. Cocoanut skulls, monkeys, not even
closed at first, sour milk in their swaddles and tainted curds. Oughtn't
to have given that child an empty teat to suck. Fill it up with wind.
Mrs Beaufoy, Purefoy. Must call to the hospital. Wonder is nurse Callan
there still. She used to look over some nights when Molly was in the
Coffee Palace. That young doctor O'Hare I noticed her brushing his coat.
And Mrs Breen and Mrs Dignam once like that too, marriageable. Worst
of all at night Mrs Duggan told me in the City Arms. Husband rolling in
drunk, stink of pub off him like a polecat. Have that in your nose in
the dark, whiff of stale boose. Then ask in the morning: was I drunk
last night? Bad policy however to fault the husband. Chickens come home
to roost. They stick by one another like glue. Maybe the women's fault
also. That's where Molly can knock spots off them. It's the blood of the
south. Moorish. Also the form, the figure. Hands felt for the opulent.
Just compare for instance those others. Wife locked up at home, skeleton
in the cupboard. Allow me to introduce my. Then they trot you out some
kind of a nondescript, wouldn't know what to call her. Always see a
fellow's weak point in his wife. Still there's destiny in it, falling
in love. Have their own secrets between them. Chaps that would go to the
dogs if some woman didn't take them in hand. Then little chits of girls,
height of a shilling in coppers, with little hubbies. As God made them
he matched them. Sometimes children turn out well enough. Twice nought
makes one. Or old rich chap of seventy and blushing bride. Marry in May
and repent in December. This wet is very unpleasant. Stuck. Well the
foreskin is not back. Better detach.

Ow!

Other hand a sixfooter with a wifey up to his watchpocket. Long and
the short of it. Big he and little she. Very strange about my watch.
Wristwatches are always going wrong. Wonder