omniwomen, but now shedropping his hitches like any purple cardinal’s princess or woman of the crime-de-citron, vair email paon- coque or marshmallow series, which she, as bearer, used to it as blow it to the Worldy Inn the days of old Roastin the Bowl Ratskillers, readyos! Why was you hiding, moder of moders? And where was hunty, 330 poppa the gun? Pointing up to his own liogotenente with inclined jambs in full sail, a whyterobe lifting a bennbranch a yardalong (iVoeh!) on the door. Then he’ll bum no more. Lack breath must leap no more. Sweet bad luck to it on