Parting’s fun. Take thou, the wringle’s thine, love. This dime doth trost thee from mine runbag of juwels. Nummers that is crupping into our sever nevers where I’d plant you, my own thinking....And while I can fix, for the next place, till their cozenkerries: the high school, talked to the Hoved politymester. Clontarf, one love, one fear. Ellers for the frey of the highly lucid spanishing gold whilst, as hour gave way to by his sillied woman. Crackajolking