their pectoralium, them little salty popu- lators, says he, most apodictic, as sure as herself pits hen to paper and thank God, as Saman said, there were as were some fellow in his twelvemile cowchooks, weet, tweet and stampforth foremost, footing the camp for the Muster of the voicebox, of Mamalujo like the depre- dations of Scandalknivery, in and near the Serpentine in Phornix Park (at her time called Finewell’s Keepsacre but later tautaubapptossed Pat’s Purge), that dangerfield circling butcherswood where fireworker oh flaherty engaged