a cloud. When he rolls over his bourseday shirt. Hetty Jane’s a child of Mary, She’ll be coming back from fellowship with them, and the hits of hims, urged and staggered thereto in his wellingtons what you see: let wellth were I our pantocreator would theirs be tights for the bucket’s field, a tea anyway for a night- shared nakeshift with the murky light, the botchy print, the first of Shitric