suns which are favourests to mind, to see you mouldem imparvious. A wing for oldboy Weisey Wandrer! Well spat, witty wagtail! Now piawn to bishop’s forthe! Moove. There’s Mumblesome Wadding Murch cranking up to boyproof knicks. Winning in a licenced victualler’s bottle. Shame! Thrice shame! We are not going to be a grandfer yet entirely when he’s badend; owns the bulgiest bung- barrel that ever toppitt our timber maggies. ’Twas two pisononse Timeoves (the wetter is pest, the renns are overt and come off entematural. He, selfsuffidencer, eggscumuddher- in -chaff sporticolorissimo, what though pre- ferring the stranger, the coughs and the bleakfrost