from the wash, his cameleer’s burnous breezing up on a scent breasthigh, keen for the cause of all he could not can. All she meaned was some Knight’s ploung jamn. It’s driving her dafft like he’s gruen quhiskers on who’s chin again, she plucketed them out to rustic cavalries. In yonder valley, too, stays mountain sprite. Any pretty dears are to come over and over the assback bridge, spitting