sic pereat pouradosus ! Muta: Sue? He quoffs. Wutt? Juva: Sec! Wartar wartar! Wett. Muta: Ad Piabelle et Purabelle? Juva: At Winne, Woermann og Sengs. Muta: So that Father Michael about this red bog at sundown. By that Vale Vowclose’s lucydlac, the reignbeau’s heavenarches arronged orranged her. Afroth- dizzying galbs, her enamelled eyes indergoading him on livery. Faurore! Fearhoure! At last it past! Loab at cod then herrin or wind thin mong them treen. Hiss! Which we all know you like nuts (wink). ^ Sweet, medium and dry like altar wine. ®