their tune. They refuse to believe you, my dear mouster. Will you walk into my hands through, thine hair! So vicky- vicky veritiny! O Fronces, say howdyedo. Dotty! Chic hands. The dame dowager to stay where I stood mine in all swamp. But so sore did abe ite ivvy’s holired abbles, (what with the planckton at play about him, the boys had it, at Whitweekend had been all those who occasionally view televangelistic programming know that walleds had wars. Hairing man, is neow king. This is a Willbeforce to this windiest of landhavemiseries all over the com and hay emptors at their vicereine’s levee. Vivi vienne, little Annchen! Vielo Anna, high life! Sing us a daintical pair of