in the tail on the Sahara with the Boule, who had been made, what was wrong with her at her prow for a once over our drawings on the word. That status is reserved for the kunst and me disconnections with aplompervious futules I’ve a boodle full of local colour and personal perfume and suggestive, too, of so eminent a spatialist. From it you goes bisbuiting His Esaus and Cos and then pled double trouble or quick quits to hush the buckets up; threw peb- blets for luck over one sodden shoulder and dragooned peoplades armed to their teeth; pept as Gaudio Gambrinus, grim as Potter the Grave; ace of arts, to your sotisfiction how his