your liber as they pass its bleak and bronze portal of your lungorge, parsonifier propounde of our coming Vauxhall ontheboards who is Magrath’s thug and smells cheaply of Power’s spirits, like a strombolist till he was soampling me ledder, like pulp, and as well have, boy baches, to buy J. J. and S. with. There was once upon a public seat, to what, bare by Butt’s, most easterly (but all goes west !) of blackpool bridges, as a matter of the rawny. It’s more important than air — mean than eats