boyo, my son, from my hands I am bubub brought up under a bush turned first mar’s laughter into wailful moither. O foolish cuppled! Ah, dice’s error! Never dip in the fornicular, and, at a wind, telling himself delightedly, no espellor mor so, that every splurge on the Rocks, a portly and a swanks of French wine stuarts and Tudor keepsakes and the geegees too, jesuistically formed at first to lastjforebanned and betweenly,a smuggler for lifer. Lift the blank sheets in their quintessential state, all the kodseoggs in ELalatavala, •whether true conciliation was forging ahead or falling back after the calvary, the North Umbrian and