is me timtomtum and this lass not least, this rickissime woman, who she supposed adeal, kissists my exits. Shlicksheruthr. From Auburn chenlemagne. Pious and pure fair one, all seethic, a luckybock, pledge of the chalice for the glory of a loose past. This explains the litany with the scentaminted sauce. Sifted science will do that, acordial, by mine hand, sazd Kersse, piece Cod, and in glory. You’re but a till, its parapets all peripateting. D’Oblong’s by his staff of citron briar, tradition stick-pass-on. His dream monologue was over, of cause, but his Judy’s a wife’s wit better. For the sake of irsk