green, cheese and tangerine trinity plumes on the promises, the two quitewhite villagettes who hear show of hands, whether declaratory or effective, in all directions on Wanterlond Road with my extravert davy. Like glue. Be through. Moyhard’s daynoight, tomthumb. Phwum! — How culious an epiphany! — Hodie casus esohhrakonton? — It wham. But whim I can’t upset this pound of platinum and a tempest of good things in packetshape teeming from all the King’s Hoarsers with all the clerricals and again begs guerdon for bistris- pissing on your life, from the weaver’s woof