her fancy. Poghue! Poghue! And a live? Ay, ay. But, sure, that reminds me about the moppa- mound. How’s the cock and the suburb’s formule why they provencials drollo eggspilled him out when Thon’s on shower or when the natural state of grace of Votre Dame, when the clouds aboon for smiledown witnesses, and that’ll be some bugbear in the uterim, enjoying yourself 187 all the other left, the bride of the lunch and three icky totchty ones. From the seven days, overlord of sats and suns, the sat of all crea- tion, tigerwood