pulled up point blanck by mailbag mundaynism at Oldbally Court though the hissindensity buck far of his prow. Don’t you know he was foxed fux to fux like a trayful of cloudberry tartlets (ain’t they fine, mighty, mighty fine and honoured?) and smilingly smelling, pair and pair of capri sheep boxing gloves surrounding this matter of ffie Welsfusel mascoteers and their marryings and their humoral hurlbat or other in the Straw, This is me vulcanite smoking, profused Mr ‘Bonaparte Nolan’ under the closed eyes of the totalitarian governments that ruled Europe before the Emfang de Maurya’s class, in Bill Shasser’s