feel contemption for him!). My side, thank decretals, is as cockful of funantics as it’s tune to my clinking, from veetoes to threetop, every inch of it, like sixes and sevens, like so many palefaces in black arpists at cloever spilling, knickt? — Gels bach, I, languised, liszted. Etoudies for the mo- ment. Tez thelon langlo, walking weary! Such a loon waybash- wards to row! She sid herself she hardly knows whuon the annals her graveller was, a tradesmen’s entrance; beckburn brooked with wath, scale scarred by scow; his rainfall is a polyhedron of