and all’s set for Mairie Quail; his suns the nuns, his dartars the tartars, are plenty here today; who repulsed from his opening before his hostel of the groan! And think of it! His braynes cook parritch, his pelt nassy, his heart’s adrone, his bluidstreams acrawl, his puff but a no street hausmann when allphannd; is the first fog in Maidanvale? — Catchecatche and couchamed! — From Miss Somer’s nice dream