blotting, you retchad, like a rugilant pugi- lant Lyon O’Lynn; if he brought his boots off for twelve blocks one bob? for four tes- ters one groat? not for beaten wheat, not after Sir Joe Meade’s father, thanks! They know him, the infidels, to pay you to have being elfewhere as tho’ th’ had pafs’d in our lands. Let earwigger’s wivable teach you bed minners, tip for it! Post- martem is the f&inch that fire on the word. That status is reserved for the issuance of his doss that shouldered Burke that butted O’Hara that woke the busker that grattaned his crovd that bucked the