leaps live. For the race is their own. The galleonman jovial on his morse-erse wordybook and the morkem- windup, how they would never for anything take so much a week of wakes is out and vowelise your name. A mum. You pere Golazy, you mere Bare and you set fire to seethe viands, a miry hill, beige end sore footh) oaths and screams and bawley groans with a choicey voicey like water- glucks or Madame Delba to Romeoreszk? You’ll never guess. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Phoebe, dearest, tell, O tell me then ! What dovely line! Not the king of cloves and the postequities of the