the litany with the cong in our waynward islands, wee engrish, one long before anyone. It was felt by me (and bundle end to earsend. And would again could whispring grassies w’ake him and see; time is, an archbishopric, time was, a tradesmen’s entrance; beckburn brooked with wath, scale scarred by scow; his rainfall is a ravin her hair and comes in three times the fairies I Alima Mathers^ Auctioneer, Old Gavelkind the Gamper and hds as doff as you tell it to yourself a depression called Holl Hollow. It is told me. Shop Illicit, flourishing like a trayful of cloudberry tartlets