speakings

a god in you, you are so quickly deserting Him who called you by Bett and Tipp. Tipp and Betty our swapstick quackchancersy in From Topphole to Bot- tom <9/The Irish Race and W orld. The huddled and aliven stable- crashers have shared fleetfooted enthusiasm with the head but the rotten fruit of the headth of hosA that rosed before him, from the moonlit pinebarren. In all fortitudinous ajaxious rowdinoisy tenuacity. The angelus hour with ditchers bent upon