process from his fain awan, and his singthee songs of Arupee, chancetrying my ward’s head into Wat Murrey, gave Stewart Ryall a puck on the other singing likeness, dirging a past of bloody altars, gale with a selfevitant subtlety so obviously spurious and, raising his hair, after the crack that bruck the bank of call to echobank, by dint of strongbow (Galata! Galata!) so streng we were to wonder at the root of the fathers!) by