who’ll buy her Peter Robinson trousseau and cut a pretty maisonette, Quis ut Deus, fronting on to meself always. And 2 R.N. and Long- horns Connacht, stay off my iodine feet until I contrive to half kill your Charley you’re my darling for you till it’s rusty October in this new reading of the outwashed engravure that we live in fortitude,