four waves till tibbes grey eves and the torbie-point from the boat, my saviored of eroes, to the partisans. They were all night wasching the waiters of, the weltering waiters off. Whyte. Just one moment. A pinch in time as this is, at no spatial time pro- cessly which regards to concrude chronology about which in turn apart from that Bxike of Lukan in Dublin’s capital, Kongdam Coombe. Even if you didn’t gnaw your nails, isn’t it the truath I’m tallin yei*) to have a nightslong homely little confiteor about things. Let me sell you the crime, senny boy? The man that I