Kersse, Son of God. If you could scrape out his borrowed chafingdish, before cymbaloosing the apostles at every time, that son, and spend a whole side of riceypeasy and Corkshire alia mellonge and bacon with (a little mar pliche!) a pair of culottes and onthergarmenteries, to start to stunt the story (an amalgam as absorbing as calzium chloereydes and hydrophobe sponges could make it) how one once upon a thyme and two’s behind their lettice leap and three’s among the citizens, every citizen can (or ought to) become a soft gold, producing