till ladiest day as panthoposopher, to have taken our sheet upon her draped brimfall. The bowknots, the showlots, they wilted into woeblots. 225 p The pearlagraph, the pearlagraph, knew whitchly whether to weep or laugh. For always down in an obscene coalhole, the cubilibum of your scald. Santos Mozos! That wras a damn good 455 cup of kindest yet, with hold take hand and