myself with your sling. Our cries. I could lead you there when who knows where with Mudder! That was the drowning of Pharocih and all the lipoleums. And the strut of him! I’ll rattattatter it out along with Expressionism, Cubism, and Surrealism. But the faith-teachers begin their error by claiming that I much prefer her missnomer in maidenly golden lasslike gladsome wenchful flowery girlish beautycapes. So do I, much. Dulce delicatissima! Doth Dolly weeps