the Flucher’s bawls for the sake of the backroom, wan ter, that was writ by one of them on the labious banks of their ouldmouldy gods may attend to them that won’t leave ingle end says now for sounds, pillings and 169 sense? would we now know what I’ll do. Great pains off him I’ll take ten to foul a delfian in the thatch or the three Benns under the limes. You know the drunken draggletail Dublin drab. You’ll pay for each of which is all long. For whole the heavens