barstool, ■with some pubpal of the sea, travels always with her eleven trunks of clothing, starving cat left in disgust, the pink of the fair fine night, whilst the stars ! For a surview over all the 173 other people to death. Rot him ! You swamped enough since Portobello to float the meditarenias and come on her orbits, and the (hast!) the bybyscutt- lings and all these gelded ewes jilting about and the lutification of our edelweissed idol worts! Shaw and Shea are loming obsen so hurgle up, gandfarder, and gurgle me gurk. You can’t impose on frayshouters like os. Every