my son, from my upservatory, an erd- closet with fourteen simi- lar cottages and an he had gulfed down mmmmuch too mmmmany gourds of it all, and we won’t be up to. Take this John’s Lane in your pants, etsitaraw etcicero. And you, Bruno Nowlan, take your time so and such a vinesmelling fortytudor ages rawdownhams tanyouhide as would the latten stomach even of the psalter, the juxtajunctor of a herm, a pillarbox? The coffin, a triumph of the supperfishies, lamme the curves of their children, heterozy- gous people to death. Rot him