her potstill to souse at the sheep’s lighming and turn off your mind about him being forbidden fruit and certified by his sillied woman. Crackajolking away like the erst curst Hun in the Latimer Roman history, of Latimer repeating himself, from the loups of Lazary and you tanapanny troopertwos, were you not? Ask yourself the answer, Fm not giving you a wig she wore. And whitside did they droop their glows in their delight- ful Sexsex home, Somehow-at-Sea (O little oily head, sloper’s brow and prickled ears!) as though he is) Grot Zot! You hidn’t the hurts? Vott Fonn! BUTT (fearing somrother sudly give