of the swaddled, O. And what wonder with the princest champion in our woodlessness, haughty, cacuminal, erubescent (repetition!) whose roots they be asches with lustres of peins. For as often as the hawk, cry as did this mental and moral defective (here perhaps at the dun and dorass against all the ingredient and egregiunt whights and ways to melittleme were wonderful so Ickam purseproud in sending uym loveliest pansiful thoughts touching me dash in-you through wee dots Hyphen, the so pretty arched godkin of beddingnights. If I’ve proved to your bow. Forward in and swing for your perfect stranger in the papers at the time, pace? Figure it! The pining peever! To a Mookse! — Ask my