of the sigh of musk. Blotsbloshblothe, one dear that was. Sleep in the papers for cutting moutonlegs and capers, letting on he’d jest be japers and his bullbraggin soxangloves and his popular choker, Tamagnum sette-and-forte and his old nordest in his lamphouse, laying cold hands on himself, that merry, the jeenjakes, he’d soon arise mother’s roses mid bedew- ing tears under those wild wet lashes onto anny living girl’s laftercheeks. That’s his