sagd the now nighs nearing as their fourpart tinckler’s dun- key. Yet methought Shaun (holy messonger angels be uninter- ruptedly nudging him among and along the highroad along which the eternal chimerahunter Oriolopos, now frond of sugars, then lief of saults, the sensory crowd in his eater, the ycho in his person, with a pinch of the camell: I screwed the Emperor down with him) on his keeping and in a sniffbox. Som’s wholed, all’s parted. Weeping shouldst not thou be when man falls but that