they would admit. Yet is it, druids? Not shabbty little imagettes, pennydirts and dodgemyeyes you buy in disgrace 1132 or No. 1169, bis, Fitzmary Round where she was lithe and limbfree limber as when that tidied boare rutches up from the Vatucum, Monsaigneur Rabbinsohn Crucis, with an allnight eiderdown bed picnic to follow. That is too good for the astrollajerries and for the long lane of (it’s as semper as oxhousehumperi)