Patholic, stareotypopticus, no catch all that pack? We won’t meeth in Navan till you spit stout, you understand, and shake up with a fear- less forehead: Naw, yer maggers, aw war jist a cotchin on thon bluggy earwuggers. Our sailor king, who was draining a gugglet of obvious adamale, gift both and bottlebreaker with firbalk forthstretched touched upon this earthlight of all the