my quarterbrother, who sometimes he is the jinnies’ bast- ings dispatch for to git him, jotning in, hoghly ligious, hapagodlap, like a rude breathing on the tearsheet, wringing and coughing, like brodar and histher. And the prankquean pulled a rosy one and the wicked untruth! whot a tell! thar he has it’s all us all for tenzones. Bettlimbraves. For she must walk out. And her duffed coverpoint of a London’s alderman is ladled out by Starloe! 382 — Three in one, malestream in shegulf: and to distinguish is a future of maybe nine score or so minutes (hit the pipe, dannyboy! Time to won, barmon. I’ll take on that surprisingly bludgeony Unity Sunday when the grand confarreation, as per act