A sense of fear of the unknown moved in the heart of his weariness, a fear of symbols and portents, of the hawk-like man whose name he bore soaring out of his captivity on osier-woven wings, of Thoth, the god of writers, writing with a reed upon a tablet and bearing on his narrow ibis head the cusped moon. The great question, or one of these, is, afterward, I know, with regard to certain matters, the question of how long they have lasted. This second morsel, as I watched her, she was very markedly and intently attempting to tighten in its place. --Tub of guts, said Mr Dedalus coarsely.
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