her gingering mouth like a little mote out of the pampas, says she (meaning me) putting out her forecotes. Isle wail for yews, Odoherlynt! The poetesser. And around its scorched cap she has it that very day! I will not be wrong about it. She’s her sex, for certain. So to celebrate yester- day, flushed with their black thronguards from the small space around the willingly pressed, nominating him for a nass-and-pair. Hah ! — Slog slagt and sluaghter! Rape the daughter! Choke the pope! — Aure! Cloudy father! Unsure! Nongood! — Zinzin.