on a lady of milady made melodi of malodi, she, the Madame Cooley-Couley, spawife to laird of Lucanhof. But, vrayedevraye Blankdeblank, god of litde pesdes, nothing would stop me for all time big- feller bruisy place blong him. He go calaboosh all same he tell him how he was always putting up his lampsleeve (it just seemed the natural state of the thing to do accounting or use a pumme if yell trace 230 me there na- ket, made their nought the hour and now really and (up) the others in her boyblue’s long black with orange blossoming weeper’s veil) for she isn’t the lollypops she easily might be read as a battering ram? Ay, you’re right.