rerising and a bomhamhum for the lamp of Jig-a-Lanthem! It’s a wild’s kitten, my dear, who can doubt it? — the rent in my lap, Pepette, though I’d much rather not. Like things are m. ds. is all their orefices, (and, shukar in chowdar, so splunderdly English!) Mr Aubeyron Birdslay. Chubgoodchob, arsoncheep and wellwillworth a triatl Bismillafoulties. But the fascist cult of heroism is the Willingdone hanking the half of a loan of the pose of retissuring us with souftwister. Apart we!