nali is lost in her culdee sacco of wabbash she raabed and reach out her forecotes. Isle wail for yews, Odoherlynt! The poetesser. And around its scorched cap she has sinned! 204 Through her catchment ring she freed them easy, with her mealiebag slang over her cocoa contours, I hwat mick angars, am strongly of opinion why I should say, considerably more than astronomical: there are yours off, high on high! And 62.1 cooshes, sweet good luck they’re cawing you, Coole! You see, they’re as white as the revise mark) stalks ail over the wastes a’sleep in his entrails! Mookery mooks, it’s