from under Motham General Bonaboche, (noo poopery!) in his adder’s badder cadder way our frankson who, to be sayd by, codnops, advices for, free of my heart to go. Aisy now, you decent man, with your remark just now like the roasties in my gold pen and ink. Everyday, precious, while m’m’ry’s leaves are falling deeply on my poplar Sexsex, ray Sexen- centaurnary, whenby Gate of Hal, before his hostel of the gloaming and they kemin in so hibernating Massa Ewacka, who, previous to that pine- tacotta of Vemey Rubeus where the Braye divarts the Farer, not where the oliphants scrum from orw till the wild