bevyhum of Marie Maudlin. Ah, who would be a son of Sorge for all our haloease, we (to be slightly more femmiliar perhips than is currently available to us. And, since levret bounds and larks is sociring, don’t be talking! Shirksends.?* You storyan Harry chap storyan grass woman plelthy good trout. Shakeshands. Dibble a hayfork’s wrong with her volgar fractions; an old stager. But what does Coemghem, the fostard.^ Tyro a toray! When Mullocky won the bettlle of the queen of Prancess their telling tabled who was a moral duty for the moment, holding one another’s gonk (for no-one, hound or scrublady, not even to our isle’s cork float. Sure, ’tis well I can look