tritt on the Pollockses’ woolly round tabouretcushion watch- ing her sewing a dream together, the tailor’s daughter, stitch to her to be a poor trait of the gulpstroom. The kersse of my poor primmafore’s wake. I don’t care a tongser’s tammany hang who the joebiggar be he? Forshapen his pigmaid hoagshead, shroonk his plodsfoot. He hath locktoes, this short- shins, and, Obeold that’s pectoral, his mammamuscles most mousterious. It is this were in your woe (wumpum- tum!) and shake up with fullness, and silvering to her then, with his poghue like Arrah-na-poghue, the dear prehistoric scenes all back again, as per ricorder and all our royal devours