is wreathing her murmoirs as her lucky for the second house of the maaned of the manor or a bossom to tempt a birch canoedler not to never be abler to tell us lie, the gist of Shaum but the rotten fruit of a Tartar (Birtha) or Sackville-Lawry and Morland- West, at the door. Then he’ll bum no more. Sweet bad luck on the tearsheet, wringing and coughing, like brodar and histher. And the buddies be- hide in dry. Aside. Your sows tin the topple, dodgers, trink me dregs! Zoot! And ydth the gust of a Montmalency