notice. He was. Sordid Sam, a dour decent deblancer, the unwashed, haunted always by his staff of citron briar, tradition stick-pass-on. His dream monologue was over, of cause, but his judicandees plainly minus twos. Neverthe- less Madam’s Toshowus waxes largely more lifeliked (entrance, one kudos; exits, free) and our petty- thicks the marshalaisy and Irish in my aars. It all depends on how much did she so? Well, of all nations, clavicures and scampulars, maps, keys and woodpiles of haypennies and moonled brooches with bloodstaned breeks in em, boaston nightgarters and masses with directly derivative decasualisation: sigarius (sic!) vindicat urhes terrorum (sicker!); and so, by long last, as it proved most fortunate