I'll go through the printing works

-- Just cut it out, will you? Mr Bloom said, and I'll take it round to the Telegraph office.
The-door of Ruttledge's office creaked again. Davy Stephens, minute in a large capecoat, a small felt hat crowning his ringlets, passed out with a roll of papers under his cape, a king's courier.
Red Murray's long shears sliced out the advertisement from the newspaper in four clean strokes. Scissors and paste.
-- I'll go through the printing works, Mr Bloom said, taking the cut square.
-- Of course, if he wants a par, Red Murray said earnestly, a pen behind his ear, we can do him one.
-- Right, Mr Bloom said with a nod. I'll rub that in. We.
William Brayden, Esquire, of Oaklands, Sandymount
Red Murray touched Mr Bloom's arm with the shears and whispered:
-- Brayden.
Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a stately figure entered between the newsboards of the Weekly Freeman and National Press and the Freeman's Journal and National Press. Dullthudding Guinness's barrels. It passed stately up the staircase steered by an umbrella, a solemn beardframed face. The broadcloth back ascended each step: back. All his brains are in the nape of his neck, Simon Dedalus says. Welts of flesh behind on him. Fat folds of neck, fat, neck, fat, neck.