I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens.Ĭruel. Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. They understand what we say better than we understand them. He bent down to her, his hands on his knees. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly, the lithe black form. Just how she stalks over my writingtable. The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table, mewing. O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire. The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high. It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the fire. Made him feel a bit peckish.Īnother slice of bread and butter: three, four: right. Gelid light and air were in the kitchen but out of doors gentle summer morning everywhere. Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly, righting her breakfast things on the humpy tray. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods’ roes. MR ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls.
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