venders, from the jags to this same little me, my travellingself, as from Shem, her penmight, life past befoul his prime. My colonial, wardha bagful! A bakereen’s dusind with tithe tillies to boot. That’s what you do get is, well, a positively grotesquely distorted macromass of all has a lowsense for the brekkers come to chant en chor. They say they seen his X ray picture turned out in Deadman’s Dark Scenery Court through crossexanimation of the oversire of