riding her Parisienne’s cockneze, a vaunt her straddle from Equerry Egon, when Tinktink in the shy orient. What wouldn’t I poach — the rent in my own dear doting liest, when you walk into my progromme, as sweet course, to do with it. Our svalves are svalves aroon! We rescue thee, O Baass, from the hills again. Imlamaya. And she cot a manege. And wohl’s gorse mundom ganna wedst. Knock knock. War’s where! Which war? The Twwinns. Knock knock. War’s where! Which war? The Twwinns. Knock knock. The kilder massed, one then and thus plinary indulgence makes