The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 075
meaning of that word. Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty
boy? I do wish I could do something for you. Please tell me what you think
of poor me. I often think of the beautiful name you have. Dear Henry, when
will we meet? I think of you so often you have no idea. I have never felt
myself so much drawn to a man as you. I feel so bad about. Please write me
a long letter and tell me more. Remember if you do not I will punish you. So
now you know what I will do to you, you naughty boy, if you do not wrote.
O how I long to meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request before my
patience are exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now, naughty
darling. I have such a bad headache today and write by return to your longing
MARTHA.
P.S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. I want to
know.
He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and
placed it in his heart pocket. Language of flowers. They like it because no-one
can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. Then, walking slowly
forward, he read the letter again, murmuring here and there a word. Angry
tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you don’t please poor
forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meet
all naughty nightstalk wife Martha’s perfume. Having read it all he took it
from the newspaper and put it back in his sidepocket.
Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder did
she wrote it herself. Doing the indignant : a girl of good family like me,
respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. Thank you :
not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running round corners. Bad as
a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic. Go further next time.
Naughty boy : punish : afraid of words, of course. Brutal, why not? Try it
anyhow. A bit at a time.
Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it. Common
pin, eh? He threw it on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere : pinned
together. Queer the number of pins they always have. No roses without
thorns.
Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in the
Coombe, linked together in the rain.