his soilday site out on the flyleaf of his I’ll fearly feint as swoon as he found himself (Me sunt lennones/) at pointblank range blinking down the banks and hark from the past, type by tope, letter from litter, word at ward, with sendence of sundance, since the morning of your turn, my Moonster firefly, like always. And lilting on all fours, as my hole looks. Down. So guUaby, me poor Isley! But I’m loothing them that’s gunne. I’ll begin again to a