Read it through once

BLOOM: My spine’s a bit limp. Go or turn? And this food? Eat it and get all pigsticky. Absurd I am. Waste of money. One and eightpence too much. _(The retriever drives a cold snivelling muzzle against his hand, wagging his tail.)_ Strange how they take to me. Even that brute today. Better speak to him first. Like women they like _rencontres._ Stinks like a polecat. _Chacun son goût_. He might be mad. Dogdays. Uncertain in his movements. Good fellow! Fido! Good fellow! Garryowen! _(The wolfdog sprawls on his back, wriggling obscenely with begging paws, his long black tongue lolling out.)_ Influence of his surroundings. Give and have done with it. Provided nobody. _(Calling encouraging words he shambles back with a furtive poacher’s tread, dogged by the setter into a dark stalestunk corner. He unrolls one parcel and goes to dump the crubeen softly but holds back and feels the trotter.)_ Sizeable for threepence. But then I have it in my left hand. Calls for more effort. Why? Smaller from want of use. O, let it slide. Two and six.