you think.

Not stillborn of course. They are not even registered. Trouble for
nothing.

Funny sight two of them together, their bellies out. Molly and Mrs
Moisel. Mothers' meeting. Phthisis retires for the time being, then
returns. How flat they look all of a sudden after. Peaceful eyes.
Weight off their mind. Old Mrs Thornton was a jolly old soul. All
my babies, she said. The spoon of pap in her mouth before she fed
them. O, that's nyumnyum. Got her hand crushed by old Tom Wall's son.
His first bow to the public. Head like a prize pumpkin. Snuffy Dr Murren.
People knocking them up at all hours. For God' sake, doctor. Wife in
her throes. Then keep them waiting months for their fee. To attendance
on your wife. No gratitude in people. Humane doctors, most of them.

Before the huge high door of the Irish house of parliament a flock of
pigeons flew. Their little frolic after meals. Who will we do it on? I
pick the fellow in black. Here goes. Here's good luck. Must be thrilling
from the air. Apjohn, myself and Owen Goldberg up in the trees near Goose
green playing the monkeys. Mackerel they called me.

A squad of constables debouched from College street, marching in
Indian file. Goosestep. Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their
truncheons. After their feed with a good load of fat soup under their
belts. Policeman's lot is oft a happy one. They split up in groups and
scattered, saluting, towards their beats. Let out to graze. Best moment to
attack one in pudding time. A punch in his dinner. A squad of others,
marching irregularly, rounded Trinity railings making for the station.
Bound for their troughs. Prepare to receive cavalry. Prepare to receive