Ten to one the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher’s dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange.
James Joyce. Ulysses
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‘Who are you — with a murrain to you? No honest buyer. I’ll warrant, but a hanger-on of the dicers — or something worse. Go! dance off, and find fitter company, or I’ll give you a tune to a little quicker time than you’ll like.’