—That takes the solitary, unique, and, if I may so call it, recherché biscuit
Most people considered Lenehan a leech but, in spite of this reputation, his adroitness and eloquence had always prevented his friends from forming any general policy against him.
Lenehan’s gaze was fixed on the large moon circled with a double halo. He watched earnestly the passing of the grey web of twilight across its face.
—Well...tell me, Corley, I suppose you’ll be able to pull it off all right, eh?
—You’re what I call a gay Lothario, said Lenehan. And the proper kind of Lothario too!
—She was...a bit of all right, he said regretfully.
He knew that he would have to speak a great deal, to invent and amuse, and his brain and throat were too dry for such a task. The problem of how he could pass the hours till he met Corley again troubled him a little. He could think of no way of passing them but to keep on walking.
He was tired of knocking about, of pulling the devil by the tail, of shifts and intrigues. He would be thirty-one in November. Would he never get a good job? Would he never get a home of his own? [...] Experience had embittered his heart against the world.
His friends talked very little. They looked vacantly after some figures in the crowd and sometimes made a critical remark.
He knew Corley would fail; he knew it was no go.
