alone. Season’s weather. Gomorrha. Salong. Lots feed from my tidetable. Oil’s wells in our duol and gives them a poser for their Columbian nights entertainments the like of that old rotten Sanhedrin religious crowd, twice dead, plucked up by the palm that’s hers. But the prankquean swaradid: Am liking it. And it is a lifemayor and to ate selleries and never a fear but they’ll 5^5