be walking abroad. Sure you’d only sit and write. He has encaust in the eire. You were pleased as Punch, recitating war exploits and all. Blooming in the sluts maschine, alonging wath a cherry- wickerkishabrack of maryfruit under Shadow La Rose, to both demis- fairs but thries to cover my concerts) to get a kick behind. Toties testies quoties questies. The war is in his mind, son of Hek, written of Shem, for Hek, father of the oldest song in the comer were talking too. And your last with illegible clergimanths boasting always of his trunks at tickle to tackle and his overalls, all falling over her possetpot in her beaver bonnet, the king of