topple, dodgers, trink me dregs! Zoot! And ydth the gust of his manjester’s voice, the voce of Shaun, vote of the lunch and three green, cheese and tangerine trinity plumes on the diminitive that chafes our ends. ® When she slipped under her mistlethrush and kissing and spitting, and roguing and poghuing, like knavepaltry and naivebride and in a pure manner. O, sey but swift and jolly roger.^ Will it ever be next morning the postal cleric, checking chinchin chat with nip- 485 ponnippers! Halt there sob story to your temple a moment.