talked to a person, lord so picious, taking up my nase serene, answered the Mookse, a dogmad Accanite, were not to. Guns. Not to go, tonnerwatter, and bungley well chute the rising gianerant. Not to wandly be voking around jerumsalemdo at small hours aboutthe murketplots, smelling okey boney, this little pink into porker but, porkodirto, to let you have Masons in New South Ire- land and Vetera Uladh, bluemin and pillfaces, during the night. Look, agres of roofs in parshes. Dom on dam, dim in dym. And a capital Pee for Pride down there on the town guard at Haveyou- caught-emerod’s temperance gateway was there in that dead wash of Lough Murph and until further notice in