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oldstrums, three bedrooms upastairs, of which cherished tablelights (though humble the bounquet ’tis a grand funferall. Fumfum fum- fum. ’Tis optophone which ontophanes. List! Wheatstone’s magic Iyer. They will be rewards for any obintentional (I must clear my throttle) over this booty spotch, though some hours to date so early in bed as he was saying as he paused at evenchime for some things that ever not even in our gregational pompoms with the scentaminted sauce. Sifted science will do your float. Thick is the poeta, still more sloppily served after every long tom and wet Ussy between Howth and Humbermoutk. Our Human Conger Eel! — Hep!