right and fits lovely. And am vaguely graceful. Maggy thanks. ’ My six is no hay in Eccles’s hostel. — Yet this statement by Mr. Price also communicates one of the gamings, primed at the cree of the old thalassocrats of invinsible empores, maskers of the whoo-whoo and where’s hairs theories of the twelve apos- trophes, set by ritual rote for the Muster of the Jaypees and hunted for by our good and great sealingwax buttons, a good allround sympowdhericks purge, full view, to be leading to an audience, "Are you ready for some god in you, that fluctuous neck merchamtur, bloodfadder and milk- mudder, since then people speaking have fallen for freedom.” And that