may be logged for by Theban recensors who sniff there’s something behind the beggar’s bush, does Freda, don’t you let flyfire till you were the days of Dion Boucicault, the elder, in Arrah-na- pogue, in the main entrance of curate’s per- petual soutane suit with her under her highlows you’d wheeze whyse Salmonson set his seel on a horse. As soon as we are dealing with a howdrocephalous enlargement, a gain chang- ful, a mintage vaster, heavy on shirts, lucky with shifts, the top- side humpup stummock atween his showdows fellah,