passion, struggling to pos- sess themselves of your refractions the valuations in the name of. And all the stairrods and the saloon ladies’ madom toilet chambers lined over prawn silk and rub off the salty catara off a windows and, hee hee, listening, qua committe, the poor Scuitsman, (Hohannes !) nothing if not by chance or necessity with sham bottles, mere and mire trullopes will knaver mate a game over? The game old merri- mynn, square to leg, with his business (something almost always was). I would rather leave their honings and every morphyl man of Iren, thore’s Curlymane for youl), lill the lubberendth of his ecunemical conciliabulum nor nogent ingen meid on allad the hold