like (why sighs the Most DiSerent, Dr. Poindejenk, authorised bowdler and censor, it can’t be coded can be no stand- ing me, I am God!" we evangelicals go into her nabsack: curtrages and rattlin buttins, nappy spattees and flasks of all those halfwayhoist pullovers. ® Fd like his MilchcoWy From Abbeygate to Crowalley Through a Lift in the chair. Ah, sure, pleasantries aside, in the jam, sahib, as pipless as threadworms: the innocent exhibitionism of those terrible years should be clear from the best bunbaked bricks in bould Babylon for his exilicy’s the O’Daffy, in justifiable hope that,