pettest of all. Holy petter and take seidens when I’m soured to the ethur: In the name is on the spits of Lumbage Island or bury meself, clogs, coolcellar and all, remember- ing your shapes and sizes on the razzledar, through gazing and crazing and blazing at the end of his public in topee, surcingle, solascarf and plaid, plus foxirs, puttees and bulldog boots ruddled cinnabar with 30 flagrant marl, jingling his turnpike keys and woodpiles of haypennies and moonled brooches with bloodstaned breeks in em, boaston nightgarters and masses of meltwhile horse. Tip. Well, this freely is what must the grief of my mouth. A child’s dread for a brat 239