Part 24

⁠​​​‌​​​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌⁠—Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom.

—All is lost now.

Richie cocked his lips apout. A low incipient note sweet banshee murmured: all. A thrush. A throstle. His breath, birdsweet, good teeth he’s proud of, fluted with plaintive woe. Is lost. Rich sound. Two notes in one there. Blackbird I heard in the hawthorn valley. Taking my motives he twined and turned them. All most too new call is lost in