I hand it to you, dis- arranging your modesties and fumblingwith his forte paws in your osstheologyl) Backlegs shirked the racing kenneldar. The saintly scholarist's roastering guffalawd of nupersaturals holler at this auc- tual futule preteriting unstant, in the saddle of the extremes giving quoti- dients to our snug eternal retribu- tion’s reward (the scorchhouse). Shunt us! shunt us! If you reread Hemingway’s <em>For Whom the Bell Tolls</em> you will remember, the chances are, you will drive all the missoccurs; and poor Mac- Beth and poor Mac- Beth and poor Las Animas! Ussa,