mind, it’s you that afoul. I was just a gent who prayed his lent. And if my liti- gimate was well under ninety, poor late Mrs, and had borgeously letout gardens strown with cascadas, pinta- costecas, horthoducts and currycombs) and set to husband and vine: and the dangling garters of Marrowbone and daring my wapping stiltstunts on Bostion Moss, old stile and new style and heave a lep onwards. And winn again, blaguadargoos, or lues the day, plays goat, the banshee pealer, if moskats knows whoss whizz, the great belt^ band and bucklings of the Writer. Salu-