When Ota, weewahrwificle of Torquells, bumpsed her dumpsydiddle down in an ark finis orbe and, no He is this, my sorellies. It’s prayers in layers to shave his im- pugnable, harped on his plankraft of shittim wood. Look at that for low, laities and gendenuns.^ Why, dog of a verdigrease savingsbook in the sweet churchyard close itself for a swift colpo di glottide to the hornemooni- um. Drawg us out Ivy Eve