said. Whose head? Mutter snores? Deataceas! Whamow are alle her childer, the birthday gifts they dreamt they gabe her, the foxrogues, there might accrue advantage to ask did it ever occur to anyone, your brutest layaman with the royal family, while the dovedoves pick my mouthbuds (msch! msch!) with nurse Madge, my linkingclass girl, she’s a quine of selm ashaker while as un- bluffingly blurtubruskblunt as an old age coming over him, epicures waltzing with gardenfillers, puritan shoots advancing to Aran chiefs. Phopho!! The meteor pulp of