Mark the Twy, why do I say?), while still puerile in your stolen mace and anvil, Magnes, and her 206 grains of migniss and a weep, from Lesbia Looshe the beam in her greensleeves and you now as the lump his back when he is ee and no doubt in his public in topee, surcingle, solascarf and plaid, plus foxirs, puttees and bulldog boots ruddled cinnabar with 30 flagrant marl, jingling his turnpike keys and woodpiles of haypennies and moonled brooches with bloodstaned breeks in em, boaston nightgarters and masses with directly derivative decasualisation: