Page:Ulysses, 1922.djvu/521

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(Turns to the piano.) Which of you was playing the dead march from Saul?

Me. Mind your cornflowers. (She darts to the piano and bangs chords on it with crossed arms.) The cat’s ramble through the slag. (She glances back.) Eh? Who’s making love to my sweeties? (She darts back to the table.) What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is my own.

(Gently.) Give me back that potato, will you?

Forfeits, a fine thing and a superfine thing.

(With feeling.) It is nothing but still a relic of poor mamma.

There is a memory attached to it. I should like to have it.

To have or not to have, that is the question.

Here. (She hauls up a reef of her slip, revealing her bare thigh and unrolls the potato from the top of her stocking.) Those that hides knows where to find.