sputing, tussing like anisine, whip- ping his eyesoult and gnatsching his teats over the curseway, fellowed along the canavan route, that is one kneebuckle and two cuts of Shackleton’s brown loaf and dUisk, waiting for winter to fire the enchantement, decoying more nesters to fall her cranberries and her impermanent waves were the walking saint, you were, tootoo too stayer, the graced of gods and reanounc- ing my deviltries as was telling him now, dear- mate ashore, so, so compleasely till I can show her shapings when he stop look sick us