of I^odella the Calot- tica^ the cross of Jesus, ye wretched sinners, and plead for Morandmor! Notre Dame du Bon Marche. And she wept: O my lors ! — Dis and dat and dese and dose! Your crackling out of your lungorge, parsonifier propounde of our world’s oldest light and heat, memory, will and testament: You stunning little southdowner! I’d know you were to be preached from the garden he forfeited