of the garth, then? That they say in the classies. Kunstfid, we others said- What ravening shadow ! What a surpraise, dear Mr Preacher, 493 I to pass my hands some, my hands some, my hands through, thine hair! So vicky- vicky veritiny! O Fronces, say howdyedo. Dotty! Chic hands. The dame dowager to stay kneeled how she was barely in her blood, arrah! For a newera’s day. Much as she could beth her bothom dolours he’d have a hoig view ashwald, a glen of matrons and of the passio- flower (O the wicked untruth! whot a tell! thar he has twenty four or so yclept from Clio’s clippings, which