hilly...

_(He is howled down.)_

J. J. O'MOLLOY: _(Hotly to the populace)_ This is a lonehand fight. By
Hades, I will not have any client of mine gagged and badgered in this
fashion by a pack of curs and laughing hyenas. The Mosaic code has
superseded the law of the jungle. I say it and I say it emphatically,
without wishing for one moment to defeat the ends of justice, accused
was not accessory before the act and prosecutrix has not been tampered
with. The young person was treated by defendant as if she were his very
own daughter. _(Bloom takes J. J. O'Molloy's hand and raises it to his
lips.)_ I shall call rebutting evidence to prove up to the hilt that the
hidden hand is again at its old game. When in doubt persecute Bloom. My
client, an innately bashful man, would be the last man in the world to
do anything ungentlemanly which injured modesty could object to or
cast a stone at a girl who took the wrong turning when some dastard,
responsible for her condition, had worked his own sweet will on her. He
wants to go straight. I regard him as the whitest man I know. He is down
on his luck at present owing to the mortgaging of his extensive property
at Agendath Netaim in faraway Asia Minor, slides of which will now be
shown. _(To Bloom)_ I suggest that you will do the handsome thing.

BLOOM: A penny in the pound.

_(The image of the lake of Kinnereth with blurred cattle cropping in
silver haze is projected on the wall. Moses Dlugacz, ferreteyed albino,
in blue dungarees, stands up in the gallery, holding in each hand an
orange citron and a pork kidney.)_

DLUGACZ: _(Hoarsely)_ Bleibtreustrasse, Berlin, W.13.

_(J. J. O'Molloy steps on to a low plinth and holds the lapel of his
coat with solemnity. His face lengthens, grows pale and bearded, with
sunken eyes, the blotches of phthisis and hectic cheekbones of John F.
Taylor. He applies his handkerchief to his mouth and scrutinises the
galloping tide of rosepink blood.)_

J.J.O'MOLLOY: _(Almost voicelessly)_ Excuse me. I am suffering from a
severe chill, have recently come from a sickbed. A few wellchosen words.
_(He assumes the avine head, foxy moustache and proboscidal eloquence of
Seymour Bushe.)_ When the angel's book comes to be opened if aught
that the pensive bosom has inaugurated of soultransfigured and of
soultransfiguring deserves to live I say accord the prisoner at the bar
the sacred benefit of the doubt. _(A paper with something written on it
is handed i