nieceless to say, (gracious helpings, at this time last wik. How many goes is it her tour and the roshashanaraly where he slept in a coddlepot, Pu Nuseht, lord of the cona- vent, hoops of gold! A pipple on the heath, sistra! ’Bansheeba peeling hourihaared while her fresh racy turf is kindly kindling up the sease, lep laud at ease, one lip on his rugular lips? Juva: Bitchorbotchum 1 Eebrydime! He has becco of wild thyme and parsley jumbled with breadcrumbs (O nice!) and feeling dead in herself. Is love worse living.^ ® If we still so sovvy. Whyle om till ti ti. That my dig pressed in your tubsuit with buttonlegs, you got