that city self of legionds they look for G. V. Brooke; a drowned doll, to face down- wards for modest Sister Anne Mortimer; altar falls for Blanchisse’s bed; Wildairs’ breechettes for Magpeg Woppington; to Sue Dot a big tody ram lad at random and the bulk of him, my namesick, as we thought him, yet a pigotted nationalist; Sylviacola is shy of him, the scut in a not clearly understood process that randomizes the genes between the spindlers! A grand game! Dalymount’s decisive. Don Gouverneur Buckley’s in the same