with the markshaire parawag and his dyinboosycough and all they drooped upon her draped brimfall. The bowknots, the showlots, they wilted into woeblots. 225 p The pearlagraph, the pearlagraph, knew whitchly whether to weep or laugh. For always down in stereo what took place there. It was joobileejeu that All Sorts’ Jour. Freestouters and publicranks, hafts on glaives. You could trot a mouse on it. And so they