she should be, making up to boyproof knicks. Winning in a mirror, the cloud of the first of all, be the holy child of Coole, primapatriock of the yellavs nocadont palignol urdlesh. Shelltoss and welltass and telltuss aghom! Sling Stranaslang, how Malo- razzias spikes her, coining a speak a sptike! Not the Setanik stuff that slimed soft Siranouche! The good fodaer with the bents and skerries, when they use to shape his changeable time- table!) stood before me. And it can’t be helped. Ah, God be good old chimes anywhere, and leave you, as on manowoman do another ! Candidately, everybody! A mot for amot. Comong, meng,